


Jabberwocky

by kriadydragon



Category: Stargate: Atlantis
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-23
Updated: 2006-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:09:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 150,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriadydragon/pseuds/kriadydragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How far is John willing to go to protect? There's more than one kind of conversion. Heads will go snicker-snack, the impossible will be possible... and what of John? Read on, read on...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Once Upon a Midnight Dreary

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A little insight into this story, which is – basically – the kind of thing I like to think up and write. The inspiration for it actually came from some of my own stories, plus a little comic book called Nightmares and Fairytales, which is rather disturbing, and the computer game Undying. I wanted to do something... creepy, I guess you could say. Seriously, it was fun just thinking up. And, yes, it is one of those 'Sheppard is missing and comes back in an unusual state' tale, but please give it a chance before you jump to any conclusions about it. It contains many unusual twists. Lovely, lovely twists.

Prologue

Once Upon a Midnight Dreary

 _Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,  
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,  
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,  
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.  
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;  
Only this, and nothing more." _

_excerpt from The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe_

(After)

John was a raven, because ravens were smarter than they let on. Or maybe it was just because of his dark hair, Mars black like raven feathers. He was also a scarecrow, but that was more a physical simile, an outside observation. Tall, strong but wiry in a way that tended to bring about a fatal underestimation of him. A scarecrow of skin, bone and muscle, shooing off the naughty little Genii and wraith flocks with his presence and raven wit.

But – yes – in terms of personality, he was a raven.

Which made Elizabeth the bust of Pallas, because he wouldn't get off her mind.

 _He can't possibly be dead._

Elizabeth stared at her phantom reflection in the window. One half of her face was angled and sharpened by the dim lights, the other invisible behind shadow. Rain spat on the window and ran in oily rivulets down the glass. The distortion created was almost nauseating, because the eye was so desperate to form the familiar view of towers, ocean, and night sky. But by focusing on the reflection that couldn't be marred, it wasn't so bad.

One week, they had one week before the mandatory funeral, when Sheppard's stuff would finally be packed away and shipped back to earth and whatever family member cared to collect it. No body to bury, just an empty coffin, a physical manifestation of what people needed to finally buckle down and accept.

But it had only been (or would be after this week) a month since John had vanished. Elizabeth felt it premature. Two months would have felt more humane. The problem was, two months would lead into three, then four, even beyond into a year. Procrastination was like a drug, and the more one gave into it, the more one _desired_ to give into it, because it was easier.

John's absence had left behind a strange aura. Most would have used the term 'a hole', but it wasn't a hole. It was something Elizabeth couldn't give a name to. There was emptiness, a subconscious space Sheppard usually filled, now filled by air. Yet ironically enough, the conscious space that was his wouldn't let him go. With every blast of the alarms, rush of the gate, and crackling static of a radio, Elizabeth's heart made a bee-line for her throat and stayed there until the cacophony died and the gate shut down. It was a shared reaction with everyone, because there was just no giving up on hope. John was too unpredictable not to hope.

Elizabeth stepped away from the window and continued on her meandering stroll. Midnight constitutionals had officially become burned into her myriad of habits – and this one was only three days old. She did it to think, because thinking while sitting still was cruel and unusual punishment. Mind and body were one, and one wasn't going to function the way it should unless the other functioned with it. So for the sake of clearer ruminations without her muscles twitching, she took up taking walks.

She really didn't want to give up hope. Not that John's empty quarters and an empty coffin meant giving up hope. They were just actions, routine and pointless actions. They didn't seal fates.

It just felt like they did. On the plus side, maybe the continual reactions that came with a gate opening would finally simmer down a notch.

Elizabeth shivered. Annoying as it was to be let down in the aftermath, she didn't want the reactions to stop.

Elizabeth's path took her, inadvertently more than once, passed John's quarters. She wasn't naïve enough to open the doors and give into the secondary hope of seeing him there. That was just ridiculous. She wasn't going to suck-up to emotions like that, then suffer the pang of disappointment even though she knew good and well that Sheppard wasn't going to be behind those doors. Walking passed them was as close as she would allow herself to get in terms of becoming emotional.

She really had no intentions of giving up on him – not until a corpse was produced.

That thought alone created a pang. It was cold, but it was the truth. Without proof, Elizabeth wasn't going to waste any tears.

 _He's a soldier. It was only a matter of time._

But seeing as it had been only a matter of time so many times before, Elizabeth hadn't really adhered to that prospect. Too little too late. Just when she was beginning to believe that John was immortal, just when she became content in the fact that he always returned, he had to leave and not come back.

What was it Teyla had said? Or was it Ronon? More like Rodney. She couldn't remember, especially since everyone had been talking at once. It had been something along the lines of Sheppard becoming paranoid, then wandering off to check the perimeter under the guise that he was only going for a walk, or something like that. Yes, definitely Rodney's word choice. What should have been twenty minutes became an hour, then three, then a day, then two days. Was he shot, taken, lying unconscious at the bottom of some pit, wraith food? Maybe, maybe not. What it all really came down to was that John had wandered off – alone – and didn't come back. Why had he been alone? Because he wasn't supposed to have been for long.

Elizabeth did recall her initial reaction. Fear, yes, but tempered fear because she never had time to give way to fear. After fear – anger. What had John been thinking? After that, constant worry, constant hope, and going rigid as a tree every time the alarms sounded.

 _I shouldn't have let him go._

She had assumed that he was fine. She had believed the idea that a small trip off world would do him good. It was supposed to be a harmless visit, with the usual mantra of ' I'm smart, you're smart, we hate the wraith so let's trade technology', followed by a little dining, gifts in the form of much needed vaccinations, and finishing it all up with a hi-ho let's all go home, job well done. Their visitation had been the fourth one for that world. Friendship set in stone. Elizabeth had been confident that Sheppard would be all right.

But she had been thinking along the lines of physical well being, of fire-fights and sudden ambushes. State of mind she had only given a passing glance.

Heightmeyer had been reluctant, with good reason. What the Cyladrans had done to Sheppard would have made the Genii drool. Those had even been her exact words. They had hit Sheppard where it really hurt, the kind of blow you didn't see until it was too late. All the physical abuse had been to get John right where he needed to be before the real torment, kind of like tenderizing the meat before burning it.

 _' I had a chance to save him, and I couldn't.'_ That was all John had said on the matter to Elizabeth. The rest of her knowledge of the situation had been provided by Kate after John's disappearance. The fact that John had talked to Kate should have been a warning sign. Rodney had said so, but as a joke. Funny, it wasn't that funny thinking back on it. There should have been more of a fight. John rarely submitted to opening up in any form or fashion.

All machoism aside, John's greatest fear was being weak and failing. Then – bam! He was weakened, and someone died.

Elizabeth couldn't fault him his state of mind. She could only fault herself for not seeing it until now. But back then, midnight had been a time for sleep, not strolls.

She missed him, she really did, and she wasn't going to deny it. She fought the need to blame herself, then came the dead of night and deep sleep when she was too exhausted to fight, and would give in. Sometimes, when she woke up, her face would be cold, because it was wet. That began long before, when the Cyladrans had sent John back to them, and he had walked on his own volition to the infirmary without saying a word – half-naked, bruised, and starved.

She had known, deep down, that something in John had been broken; she just never acknowledged it the way she should have. Too hard to.

Too little, too late. Now John sat on her mind – raven that he was. She just couldn't succumb to nevermore.

Elizabeth wandered beyond John's quarters, and found herself slipping ghost-like by the gaping doors of the lab. Her head seemed to turn on its own at the lack of expletive storms that were the norm. She caught the passing glimpse of Rodney slumped on a table with his head cradled in his folded arms and strangled snores vibrating in his throat. The temptation was to find a blanket and drape it over him, but the slight increase of weight would wake the physicist, and he would only shrug it off to continue working.

Sleeping bent on a table wasn't healthy, but had better merit than no sleep at all. Elizabeth would have loved to follow Rodney's example, but had yet to find a table comfortable enough to slump down on.

Her next passing was Teyla's quarters, but the Athosian wasn't there. Elizabeth knew that before she even came to the doors. She was probably running with Ronon, or stick fighting thin air. Physical activity, it really was the key. Keep the body busy while the mind cleared.

Except the mind didn't know when to stop.

Ronon's quarters, also empty. Definitely running.

She was almost complete in her circuit, making her way back to her own quarters for sleep that wouldn't come without a fight. But she was willing to fight, even if she had to prod Beckett for a prescription of sleeping pills.

She passed the infirmary, quiet as a midnight grave, dim as twilight, and empty at first glance. There were times when Elizabeth had been overcome with the morbid longing to see John sleeping in one of those beds. It didn't feel all that long ago when he had been.

Her room was only yards away now, and her steps slowed. It wasn't like she was anxious to get back. Maybe one more circuit to increase the chances for better sleep by wearing her legs out. It would serve her body right for being stubborn. She would sleep against the thrumming of her nerves and the pounding of her heart. She would find a way, hopefully without resorting to sedatives. Drugged sleep seemed rather... pathetic, like she was too weak to even shut down properly. It held too many connotations.

Yes, one more circuit...

Alarms blared out mechanical shrieks that made Weir's heart slam and her nerves vibrate. The sound pierced her brain, and conditioned instinct had her turning on her heels, charging for the control room. On reaching it she was met with ordered chaos. Soldiers flooded the gate room on either side of the ring, crouched or standing, backs arched or rigid, and all weapons pointed at the shimmering puddle.

" Report!" she barked.

" Unscheduled activation!" Someone replied. " Shield's already activated."

Weir nodded and sighed out a breath of relief. Shields made for such wonderful security blankets, childish as it seemed even to her. But not even the numerous stuffed toys she'd went through as a child had brought as much of a sense of comfortable safety as a shield.

A wait ensued, one of bated breath as those present listened for some voice to crackle over the radio. That was the usual song and dance. But for one whole minute they were met with silence.

Weir wrinkled her brow. " What...?"

Lights flickered, the alarms wavered, and machines moaned and struggled. Everything went dark within a blink with the only surviving light spilling from the iridescent gate.

" What's going on!" Elizabeth demanded, as though demanding would snatch all answers out of thin air. All she was met with were jumbled responses of 'I'm not sure.'

In all that time, Elizabeth's eyes remained fixed to the gate. There came lightning, flickering like a strobe, casting convulsive shadows on the floors and walls.

Had Elizabeth blinked, she would have missed it. The event horizon rippled, and a shadow-drenched form detached from it to flit into the darkness. Lightning strobed, and the dark form moved fast as a spooked rat across the floor.

Elizabeth's jaw fell slowly opened.

That wasn't possible. The shields had been up. Nothing should have gotten through.

" S-something came through!" Elizabeth cried above the shouts of those around her.

" Impossible, the shields are up!" was the response. Elizabeth shook her head.

" No... something..."

Machines and lights flickered and wound back to life. Say for the resurrected alarms, human voices fell silent. There was the expected glance-about in confusion, but all eyes eventually went to where Elizabeth's eyes already were.

The gate shut down with a rush and disintegration of liquid. Soldiers milled closer to the little surprise the brief blackout had left behind.

A trail – a wet, dark, crimson trail. Elizabeth didn't allow second thought any time to staul her. She rushed from the control room, but slowed on reaching the stairs. The trail continued on in smears, hand prints, but mostly footprints. She didn't need Beckett to run an analysis to tell her it was blood. She could smell it, metallic and foul, burning her nose and filling her lungs. She covered her mouth, part in shock, part – a major part – in disgust. Her gut churned fit to expel.

" Oh my..." she gagged. Many of the paled faces around her mimicked similar expressions.

The trail went on into the corridor, with more smears and prints – human prints, human hands and feet, ten fingers and ten toes.

" Dr. Weir?" Someone said, a female voice. She looked up to see a sweat-drenched Teyla standing on the other side of the trail, looking down with saucer-round eyes. Ronon was beside her, following the prints with his own narrowed gaze, tense as a blood-hound struggling against the leash.

 _Let's not disappoint the man_ , Weir thought, swallowing bile. She looked toward the soldiers and signaled with a wave for them to follow. Ronon was already off. He led the way, but held back enough for the soldiers to catch up since they were armed and he was not.

Rodney came around a corner, skidding to a halt with hands raised before any of the armed men collided into him.

" H-Hey, what's going on?" he shouted over the alarms, moving to walk alongside Elizabeth.

Elizabeth's pounding heart was making it difficult to breathe. " Something came through the gate."

" What? Was the shield down?"

Elizabeth shook her head. " I – I don't know. Maybe. I mean, that's the only explanation. They were running, they were up. but I _saw_ something come through."

" Are you sure?"

Elizabeth looked at Rodney in alarm. " Look down."

Rodney did, searching the floor, and stumbled back in a blanch. " Oh my...! Crap, what...? Is that – that blood?" He looked at Elizabeth. The answer man, for once, looking to others for answers.

Elizabeth didn't reply, when right then she realized where the trail was leading. She had the path memorized enough to know it by feel alone.

She hurried to be at the forefront, and passed Ronon right when the trail turned and vanished behind the sealed doors to Sheppard's quarters. Like a single ambient wave, the same thought rippled through everyone, and everyone slowed to a stop.

Elizabeth would have given anything to feel the heart clamoring hope that had always been more like a plague in the past. All she felt was utter terror, bordered by blood in the form of prints and smears. They were on the door, the wall, the pad activating the doors. Weir looked down at the foot prints, and squinted at drops and splatters of blood. It was fresh, all of it, too much of it. The smell became a taste soaking into her tongue, so she clenched her jaw to keep from spitting.

" Shouldn't we call Beckett?" came Rodney's tentative voice. Elizabeth didn't grace him with a response. In all truth, everything had become back ground noise, too pointless to even acknowledge as annoying. Elizabeth swallowed with a grimace and touched the radio at her ear.

" Can someone please shut down the alarm," she flatly stated. And two heart-beats later, stifling silence fell over them like a heavy blanket. Ronon advanced, ready to enter, but Elizabeth held up her hand to halt him.

She placed her ear to the door. Whatever it was she was expecting to hear – shouts, breathing, movement – she didn't hear it. She stepped back, and nodded once when her voice refused to work. A young soldier slapped the panel, and the doors slid open. Ronon and two soldiers flowed in like water over a dam, moving around the bed to halt on the other side.

The two soldiers stepped back, lowering their weapons. Ronon's head jerked. He looked over at Weir. The runner wasn't one for expression. Anger, annoyance, and overall stoicism were as far as he tended to go. But even he didn't have absolute control over heat of the moment reactions, and Elizabeth caught the flicker of confusion in his eyes.

And something else, something Elizabeth hadn't really seen before on the runner. Alarm, shock... fear? Somewhere along those lines, and it frightened Elizabeth.

" You need to see this," Ronon said in that rumbling voice of his, staring with penetrating eyes straight at Elizabeth. Elizabeth jolted as though she'd been shocked. In her mind, she was moving, but outward her body was motionless. She swallowed, and forced herself to step through the threshold on stiff, hesitant legs.

She didn't want to see. She needed to, but both heart and mind were screaming at her to turn around and close her eyes, because she knew she wouldn't like what she was about to confront.

 _Screw desire_. She would see. She hadn't given up hope. She needed to know if it had been worth it.

Ronon stepped back, and Elizabeth stepped around the bed.

She choked on her own breath. " John!" She hadn't been ready to see this, and she felt ready to vomit.

John was packed huddled into the corner with his feet slipping from beneath him as he tried to push himself into the wall. He was covered in blood, every inch of him. It caked his hair, soaked his clothes, dripped from his fingers clutching a cylindrical object of dark metal. If it hadn't been for his eyes, Elizabeth wouldn't have known it was him. He wasn't even looking at her. He was looking at the wall, dead-pan, emotionless, and unseeing. But she had still seen the color.

Her eyes moved down his body to a tattered shirt that had managed to remain hanging from his ravaged form by threads, strips, and dried blood. The collar had been 'widened' to the point that it fell past his shoulder all the way to his elbow, and the source for all the blood was exposed for all the world to see.

Gashes; long, deep, and in rows of three. Was that bone, gristle, tendons? Elizabeth couldn't be sure. There were gashes across his back, across the spine, down the ribcage, over the shoulders, on his chest, the back of his neck, his face, his arms, his ankles – Elizabeth counted, and she lost count. Even his bare feet were cut up, though not quite in the same way. Blood was painted on the floor, the walls – a little nest of it for John to sit in.

His feet slid forward, jerked back, then slid forward again. His ribs pulsated with panting breaths coming so fast it amazed Elizabeth that John still had his eyes open. She couldn't imagine the speed at which his heart had to be going to force him to take in air at that unnatural rate.

" Joh..." she choked again, and swallowed against a tight throat. " John?"

No response. The hands gripping the object shook. His whole body shook.

She stepped closer, and slowly lowered herself to the floor in a crouch. " John?" She reached out with an unsteady hand to touch his arm. She expected chaos in the form of terrified screams and John leaping to his feet to flee. She flinched with the thought of it, in readiness for it.

What Sheppard did was sigh, and close his eyes.

" Elizabeth." The words were mouthed, not spoken. John shifted, then moved, curling up on the floor with knees pulled to his chest and arms tucked behind them. The object rolled from his limp hands toward Elizabeth, and she grabbed it. Lifting it, she looked it over. It was a mess of bloody hand prints, smooth, with what looked to be small control panels on either end. Length wise, it was the size of her forearm minus her hand – give or take. It felt warm, but that was probably due to all the blood.

She looked back at John. His eyes were open, staring at nothing, but at least he wasn't panting like a psychotic rabbit anymore. Bloody saliva stretched from the corner of his mouth to stick to the floor.

" John? What is this?"

John lifted a trembling hand and pointed. Elizabeth looked over her shoulder to Rodney now standing by Ronon. When had he walked in? Like it mattered. Elizabeth knew what John indicated. She reached out to hand the object to McKay.

" Take it," she said – snapped – eager to get rid of it though she couldn't put reason to her loathing. Rodney stared at the thing as though it had teeth.

" Take it, McKay," Weir growled in a wavering voice. Crap, how she wanted to weep. " He wants you to take it!"

" Um..." Rodney began, but crumbled and took the object by either end, lifting it from Elizabeth's hands. Rodney's eyes flicked past Elizabeth, rounding over.

" What's he doing?"

Weir looked back. John was struggling onto his hands and knees, but only got as far as his hands when his body convulsed and he heaved. A black liquid spilled from his mouth to splash onto the floor. Crying out in alarm, Elizabeth leaped back onto her feet. John heaved again, and again spewed out a stream of black liquid like watered-down oil. Finishing that, he coughed, spat, sucked in a ragged breath, then collapsed onto his side unconscious.

Panting, Elizabeth tapped the radio at her ear.

" Beckett! We need you here _now!"_

SGA

There would be no sleep. Elizabeth paced outside the doors to the infirmary. Rodney stood to one side, clutching the object with one hand while the other remained wrapped tightly around his own chest. He was staring at the floor. He had yet to acknowledge the device.

Teyla had her arms folded, and Ronon was leaning against the wall with a twitching leg, which was as far as he got when it came to agitation.

The silence was holding like cement. They couldn't even hear what was going on beyond the infirmary doors, and no one seemed willing to break that silence. All the better. Elizabeth didn't want noise unless it was coming from Carson. She didn't want to discuss or hypothesize, or even urge Rodney to speculate on what the object could be until the most important question of them all was answered – how was John? Until then, nothing was a priority.

The infirmary doors slid open, and Elizabeth almost stumbled whirling around. Her mouth opened but the words lodged in her throat at the sight of blood splattered all over Beckett's front.

Rodney, paling, was the first to crack the congealed quiet. " He's dead, isn't he?"

Carson flashed Rodney the most withering stare he could muster. " No, you panic mongerin' bugger, he's not! Why d'you always have to go for the pessimistic...?" He then sighed and closed his eyes. " Sorry, sorry. I'm just..." he shook his head, and looked directly at Elizabeth.

" He's stable," he said. " I've no need to tell ya about the blood loss, which was massive. Gaw, Elizabeth, it's a miracle he still has his skin! Those wounds were bloody deep, some to the bone. We've stitched them up and I can tell ya now he's gonna have some massive scarrin'. On top of that, he's got broken bones galore - four ribs, wrist, ankle, arm, fingers of his left hand, collar-bone, crack in his shoulder blade... It's just fortunate that whatever caused the wounds didn't get deep enough to do damage to his spine."

Teyla stepped forward. " But he will be all right?"

Beckett looked at her sadly. Elizabeth wasn't liking that look.

" He'll live, which we should be thankful for. But we don't know what he's been through – say for that it was obviously hell. But what you saw was only the half of it. I had one of by nurses take a sample of the liquid John vomited and do some testin'. Some of the same substance was found on John's skin – mostly his hands, under his nails, also his feet and on his face..." Carson took a deep breath, shaking his head. The sad look was gone. Horror replaced it, and Elizabeth found that she would rather deal with the sadness.

" What?" Elizabeth hoarsely said.

Carson squirmed, ever so slightly, mostly in the shoulders. " It's blood."

" Blood!" Rodney barked. " You mean that stuff spewing out of his mouth... was..."

Carson grimaced. " Aye. Blood. Human."

" Human!" Rodney yelped again.

Carson winced, gulping. " Aye. At least, as far as we can tell. But there's somethin' off about it, somethin' that'll be takin' more research to look into. I can't explain it, but it goes beyond just the fact that it's all black."

" He had human blood in his stomach!" Rodney snapped. Carson opened his mouth for either an explanation or a retort, but Elizabeth cut him off.

" Can we see him?"

Carson looked at her, all sympathy and worry, the picture of doctorly concern verging on fatherly. " Aye, but you may not like what ya see."

He stepped aside, and let Elizabeth be the first to enter. She followed the sound of the heart monitor toward the back, walking with the same stiff hesitation that had tried to prevent her from going into John's quarters. John's face was the first thing she saw, white as the bandages around his chest and arm, making his hair stand out obsidian black. Nothing raven about him now. He was all scarecrow; ragged with stitches and gauze, angled by bones more visible than normal. His arm was in a cast, his ankle wrapped. Funny how it took an X-ray to discover broken bones, because John certainly hadn't acted like anything was internally wrong. Images of him darting from the gate like a mad cheetah shot through Elizabeth's brain. Broken bones had obviously not been a hindrance for him.

Elizabeth came up to the side of the bed at John's head. There was a need to put her hand on his shoulder or his forehead to establish physical contact and drive home the fact that this was really John, and not a figment of hope-skewed imagination. But there wasn't a clear spot anywhere. Where he wasn't stitched, he was bruised.

She also had a need to yell at him, cuss him out, shake him and demand to know where he had gone, and what he'd been thinking by wandering off. But it was a childish, immature way to act, let alone think. It was also a by product of selfishness. Worry and false hope had beaten her down, and now that it was over, and hope proved true after all, all that was left was anger at having gone through it in the first place. But what was it her mother used to say?

 _You have five minutes to feel sorry for yourself, then it's time to move on._ Weir gave herself three, then focused on John.

Something stood out against the white of his face other than bruises, something at the corner of his mouth. She pressed her thumb against it, wiping it away, then brought her thumb in close for inspection.

More black blood.

 _How do you get blood into your system? Two ways..._

" Carson?" Elizabeth said. " Did you check John's mouth?"

Beckett came over to her. " No, why?"

She looked back at John numbly. " To see... if there was any more blood..." She couldn't finish her theory, though.

Beckett, shrugging indifferently, pried John's mouth open using his thumbs. " What're we lookin for?"

Elizabeth's insides shriveled. She already found what she was looking for, staining John's teeth, darkest in between, stretched in saliva strings.

More black blood.


	2. Of Wolves and Their Clothing

(Before)

John stared at himself in the mirror. From chest up, he noted every hair, every line on his face, every shadow, the vague outline of his ribcage, the minuscule twitch of muscles in his shoulders, the shape of his collarbones, the veins of his throat, the gray-shaded skin beneath his eyes, the color of his eyes, the iris, the pupils...

The self scrutiny made his skin crawl, and he shivered. Speaking in terms of skin, the one he wore now wasn't feeling too much like his own, and he had yet to see any physical reasons for this. Perhaps it was because he was tired and teetering on having an out of body experience, or maybe it was because he was a promoted man, something that shouldn't have happened unless hell froze over.

Apparently, hell was now off the coast of Antarctica.

Funny how life changing leaps across light years could be. From the cold wastes of nature's freezer, to the pristine crystalline panorama of an endless alien ocean. From black-marked, fly-by-night, no one and nothing Major, to Lt. Colonel and official Commanding Officer of an entire freakin' city.

Not to say that he wasn't flattered. It was a better outcome than his going-nowhere life in Antarctica, and he knew better than to complain. Truthfully, there really wasn't anything to complain about.

Except that it didn't fit. The rank – it was like wearing a shirt one size too big, or over-stretched skin hanging limpid off his bones. And how long had he been a Lt. Colonel now? Time enough that it should have settled on him, shrunk, wrapped itself around him so that he never gave it second thought again. And, normally, he didn't. The problem was, during the solitary moments, he tended to think too much, and his thoughts would flit back to what brought him into this new rank, and new skin, in the first place.

He wasn't supposed to be alive, and Ford wasn't supposed to be gone.

 _Think positive, Colonel. City's safe. Wasn't that the goal?_ Yes, but he was a man who faced facts. Losing people pissed him off. Losing his Lieutenant, a kid under his command, a friend – well, the rage wasn't so consuming now, but had left behind a good-sized gaping hole somewhere in his chest. Seeing Ford in his altered state of being had scraped the sides of that hole to be a few circumferences wider.

John was supposed to be the expendable one, not the one people got screwed over trying to help. He found it odd. Life shoved him around, but wouldn't let him fall. _Life gives me lemons, and forces me at gunpoint to make lemonade._

John rubbed the side of his face with one hand, massaging the muscles of his jaw, then digging the heel into his eye, ending with his fingers running through his hair. He hated these momentary musings that came with being tired. He wasn't even supposed to be tired. He'd slept a good eight hours – say for the three times he awoke for no good reason (not even out of dreams), and the half hour spent contemplating a midnight snack only to conk out before coming to a decision. Still, sleep was sleep, and it should have siphoned out the bone-heavy weariness, not add to the weight.

John jerked the faucet on and splashed cold water onto his face. It didn't really kick him into full drive until a few drops slithered down his back. After that, he grabbed his shirt and yanked it on while heading out his quarters and into the hallway.

Prospect – that was why he was tired. The prospect of heading back to PX-48 whatever it was, for the fourth time, to initiate another – pointless – verbal tirade with the 'gentle' natives had prematurely filled his marrow with molten iron that was hardening. It was a world of two races; The stuck-in-the-Iron-age Mykotes, and the elusive and phantasmal (considering if they even existed at all) Cyladrans.

The plow pushers (as McKay had come to so affectionately call them) were a dwindling lot, in part because of culls, and in another part because they were worse than the Amish when it came to regarding technology. Wraith used technology, therefore it was evil. If it wasn't organically powered by hands or animals, then it was snubbed. Those who used it were tolerated, but always with a cold shoulder. A very sub-zero cold shoulder, with the occasional banishment if so inclined.

The Cyladrans were – supposedly – the absolute antithesis. One would think them the dominant race being the wicked Oraks (roughly translated – sorcerers) that they were with all their bright, shiny, whirring gizmos. The logical, initial, belief would be that their numbers were vast.

If all that were true, then they were good at picking up after themselves. Sheppard and team had yet to find a single scrap of evidence that these Cyladrans existed, and the Mykotes weren't too keen on making contact with their sinful brethren (yet kept in contact with them all the same, irony of ironies.) Something about that didn't sit well with John, and it wasn't because of the simple fact that the Mykotes' stubbornness was so freakin' irritating. The Mykotes could turn their noses up all they wanted after spitting out their barrages of no ways – it didn't hide the small spark of fear John occasionally caught in a few pair of eyes.

They were nervous.

John would have left the team's initial encounter with the plow pushers at no, but necessity wouldn't let them. If (and a mighty if it was) the Cyladrans had technology of some kind that hid them from the wraith, then the price of nagging the hard-headed farmers would be worth it.

John covered his mouth when it gaped open in a yawn. He needed stimuli. To fall asleep during the negotiations would be an insult, and an insult would drive them back to square one - and John would probably end up ripping his own hair out if that happened.

He entered the mess that greeted him with air thickly permeated in fried food, and the low, constant murmur of voices. He joined the line and let the cooks slap whatever they had ready onto his tray. Scrambled eggs, toast, a muffin, apple, orange, sausage, tea and coffee. No oatmeal today. He needed food – and drink – with a kick. Something that would last him the whole day since the Mykotes weren't big on sharing.

John took his heavy tray to the farthest table where he spotted Ronon and Teyla hunched over something that seemed to be bringing out a child-like fascination from the two. John set his tray before them, went back for his momentarily abandoned cup of Coffee, then returned, dropping himself down into his seat. He craned his neck to see what it was that had the two so enraptured.

" Watcha lookin at?" he asked innocently and with a just as innocent smile. Ronon jerked upright as though caught in the act of doing something humiliating. Teyla looked up at John, all smiles.

" This." She shoved a book toward John, and he slid it around for a quick perusal.

He flipped through the glossy pages and cocked an eyebrow. " Earth animals?"

" Yes. Dr. Jimenez – the biologist – lent it to me. She said it would help in understanding some of your earth terminology. I believe I finally understand why you continue to refer to Dr. Kavanaugh as a 'weasel'. The description suits him well."

John chuckled, still flipping the pages.

" Any favorites in particular?" He asked. Teyla took the book from him, and John took the moment to take a bite of eggs. She turned several pages, then spun the book back around for John to see.

Butterflies – monarchs, swallow-tails, zebras, and the ones with the rainbow wings. John lifted his brow and looked at Teyla.

" Really?"

Teyla looked from the book to John, troubled. " Why, is something wrong?"

John shook his head. " No, no of course not. It's just... I don't know..." Then he laughed, uneasily, knowing that he probably shouldn't say what he was about to say. " You've always had a way of reminding me of these particular bugs."

As expected, Teyla stiffened, her eyes flashing. " You think me... as one of these _fragile_ creatures?"

Heart thudding, John held up both his hands. " Whoa, wait. It's not all that simple." He then planted his finger on the monarch. " You see that one? That's you. You're... You know... gentle – when you want to be I mean. But you're dangerous... in a good way! Nothing messes with the monarch because it's dangerous. A bird tries to eat it, then bye-bye birdie. Wraith tries to mess with you, same thing. But wraiths aside, you're always there for everyone." He squinted. " You know what I'm saying?"

Teyla's features softened into a smile. " Actually, I do. Thank you, Colonel."

 _When's she ever going to call me John?_

" You consider me some kind of animal?" Ronon said. John couldn't tell by the man's flat tone if he was challenging or generally curious and trying to hide it. John decided to call him on it.

" Actually, yeah." He flipped a few pages over to the tigers. " That. _Tyger Tyger burning bright._ "

Beneath or beside pictures were tid-bits of paragraphs telling about each animal. Ronon skimmed the words, then grinned – very ferally feline. He pushed the book toward John.

" What about McKay?"

John smirked. So this was turning into a game. But John wasn't fooled. For all Ronon's expertise in keeping a poker face, John had come to familiarize himself with the signs that betrayed When Ronon was up to something.

Why bring McKay in unless...?

John turned the pages, stopping on the Chimpanzees.

" What!"

The shrill yelp drilled into John's ears, stabbing into his brain so that he was forced to wince. " Easy there Bonzo," John said, turning his upper body just enough to look up at a rigid, fish-mouthed McKay. " It's a compliment."

Rodney snapped his mouth shut and slammed his tray onto the table, scattering bits of egg. " A compliment. Being compared to a feces chucking, immature chimp is a compliment. Oh, yes, Colonel, I'm just blushing with pride that you would think of me as a monkey!"

" Primate," John said.

" Whatever!" Rodney held up a single finger. " Chimps..."

But John interceded. " Are smart, energetic, and chatty just like you." He then gave Rodney his most irreproachable smile. " It really was a compliment, Doc. Don't go throwin' a hissy."

Rodney snorted derisively. " A hissy? Crap, Colonel... How old are you and what gender? But, fine, you wanna play the what do I look/act like game? Your turn."

Rodney plopped into his seat like a sack of potatoes and yanked the book toward him. He tore through the pages until he came to the reptile section, then shoved the book over to John. " Pick one, Colonel, I'm pretty sure anyone would do. Though I am personally leaning toward snake."

John was slightly surprised to find that the statement actually stung. He didn't outwardly react to it – he was too smart for that. It was also too small to warrant any visible emotions. But the fact that it had had an effect at all was just – shocking.

The metaphorical symbol for snakes was cold, uncaring, and dangerous. Okay, dangerous he could handle. Dangerous was a necessity, and if that was what Rodney meant, then it was all good. Dangerous was a practical job description for him.

The thought of being referred to as cold blooded actually made his internal organs squirm. He cared. He had to care. One didn't protect an entire city by being apathetic. Of course he cared. Of course he wasn't cold. Rodney was just being pissy, pushing for the rough rather than the funny.

 _Okay, so I know how he feels. He took it personally, I took it personally. Let's move on, shall we?_

John opened his mouth in ready for an apologetic retort when Teyla cut into the moment by taking the book from McKay and turning the pages to canines – namely wolves.

" These creatures struck me as being very like John," she said. " They travel in packs, as do we. They have a leader, as do we. John is a good warrior as a wolf is a good hunter."

Rodney rolled his eyes. " Oh, yeah, give Colonel the cool animal."

Despite his understanding for Rodney's defensive attitude, John still had the need to defend his position. " What? People love chimps. They're smart, cute – like little kids..."

Rodney stared bullets at him.

Since when had Rodney ever been able to stare him down?

Because he's scented my guilt. John shrugged helplessly. " If it's any consolation, I was going to say dolphin. They're smart, chatty... but they have friendlier dispositions." He probably shouldn't have added that last part, but it was the truth. Rodney wasn't a people person, and John had to bite his tongue to keep from including Tasmanian Devil to the list of Rodney McKay animal likenesses.

Rodney clenched his jaw tight until the muscles twitched. The gears were turning, and a flush came to McKay's cheeks as a precursor to the massive insult he was gathering energy for. John waited silently. He would let Rodney have this one.

It was interrupted when Weir stepped up behind Teyla and Ronon, clasping a mug of coffee in both hands.

" What's going on?" she asked with the usual inquisitive spark in her eyes and lips quirked toward a smile.

" Sheppard called me a chimp!" Rodney blurted. So much for the preparation. Tattleing was normally his last resort.

" I compared you to a chimp, Rodney," John said with a sigh. " I didn't call you one."

Weir scrunched her brow. " What?"

" We were comparing eachother to your earth creatures," Teyla explained. " John said McKay was like a chimpanzee. Then Dr. McKay said that John was like a snake."

Weir blinked and stared at the physicist. " That was a little harsh, Rodney."

Rodney's jaw dropped. " What! Harsher than being called a chimp?"

" On the scale of favoritism – chimps are higher up," Weir replied. " Snakes... not so much. But if you ask me..." she reached down with one hand and turned the pages of the book to the section on birds. " This seems a little more John."

She was pointing at a raven.

John didn't know what to make of that. Metaphorical symbolism wise – ravens varied way too much. Wariness filled him like hot led, stiffening his muscles, sending his brain into calculation overdrive as he tried to place Elizabeth's mode of thought that had led her to this impression. Thought coalesced into a single word.

" Why?"

Weir shrugged, her lips still quirked. " I don't know. Ravens are smart birds, you know. And, of course, they can fly..."

Rodney pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. " Yeah, I can see the connection. Most Earth cultures tend to see ravens as omens of death." He turned his piercing gaze on John. John pierced back, only sharper. McKay was starting to push it now.

" And some believe the raven to be carriers of the soul," Weir shot back, her tone bitingly defensive. " It's all a matter of how you look at it, Rodney."

John smiled at that. Perception was such a precarious mode of thought; tilting one way or the other, with never a happy medium in between. But he felt safe enough now to take Weir's comment in the positive and be flattered by it. Rodney rolled his eyes and went back to shoveling food. It was safe to say that Rodney was going to be sour for the better part of the day, which meant that the day was shot to hell before even officially starting.

In consideration of where they were going and what they needed to accomplish, it had already been shot to hell since yesterday. But, hey, at least John was smiling.

SGASGASGA

A microscopic insect was finding John's ear rather attractive. He slapped at the appendage on hearing the high-pitched buzz become a whine that made his spine numbingly tingle in a not-so pleasant way. He cringed, clenching the muscles of his back to drive the tingle out, then rubbed his offended ear.

The sun was high and glaring down at them, but was offset by the periodic cool breeze that seemed timid about blowing. The temperature, give or take in Sheppard's mind, was somewhere between seventy and eighty. Eighty when the breeze died down and the air became still and stifling. Clouds of gnat-like insects were kicked up from the tall grass by trudging feet to pool around the biped bodies and lap moisture from their skin. It wasn't such a bad deal until the bugs gained the impression that nostrils and ears were caves offering endless tunnels of shade.

The team was wise enough to keep their mouths shut for the same reason, so trekked in silence.

The field of long-grass was bordered by trees ranging in heights from cottonwoods to redwoods – and in fact resembled cotton and redwoods, say for that the trunks were white like aspens. The wood itself emanated the scent of cedar. A walk through the forest might have been pleasant, but Sheppard had yet to trust the raucously loud animal cacophony that made a rain-forest sound serene.

A flock of multi-hued birds burst from the canopy in a mad flutter of wings. Sheppard noted the location of the birds' sudden departure, and watched for a secondary explosion of feathery bodies. When that didn't come, he looked away, but kept his awareness tuned to the area out of the corner of his eye.

At least the forest was still loud. Spooked birds made Sheppard wary, but sudden silence would have his heart going a mile per minute. Surroundings don't keep secrets – That's what a buddy of his had always liked to say. Actually, they were words he had lived by; his motto, mantra, his only advice to anyone willing to listen, and probably the words on his family crest for all John knew. The clatter of a pebble, the hiss of shifting sand, a spooked bird, the crunch of dirt, scent of diesel – All of it was why his pal Rick was still around, the last John had heard.

Silence was always the ultimate dead give-away that something was wrong.

No new panicked bird-clouds erupted, and the Mykote village came into sight. First Sheppard spotted the smoke coiling languidly from the clay ovens and stone chimneys. Next came the roofs of thatch and mud, then the small cottages of wood themselves. It was a good sized village of about two hundred folk, with the center of town dominated by the largest cottage that was the equivalent of a town hall. The gutteral barks of the wolf-sized, hairless, reptilian eraks had John and company slowing on approach. The wanna-be dogs slunk like rats from around and beneath buildings, thumping their thick tails and curling their thin lips from their small, sharp teeth.

Hunch-back, thick-skulled like pit-bulls, with round bulging yellow eyes – ugly wasn't saying enough in terms of description. Butt-freakin'-ugly was more appropriate. Their coloring was lacking in variations, from mud-brown to darker mud-brown. Several tore at the ground with heavy paws, gouging hooked claws into the soft dirt, as though about to charge like bulls.

All it would take was a single shrill whistle from the handler to send the butt-uglies tearing across the field to rip flesh from bone. Sheppard had been made well aware after attending a hunting trip with a few of the Mykotes. It was rather a disconcerting thing to watch a bunch of mutant mutts tear down a thick-skinned beast the size of an elephant in a matter of minutes. How they were ever domesticated to begin with, John couldn't figure. The things were rewarded with bowls of blood. No dry dog-food for them.

" I hate those things!" Rodney hissed. John glanced over his shoulder. Rodney looked pale verging on white, and had his hands splayed at his sides.

John's nerves buzzed with irritation - and urgency. " Rodney, remember what we discussed? They smell fear!" he hissed back. Eraks really did smell fear. The handler said it was why they bellowed out ear-splitting howls before hunting, to instill fear and sniff it out.

The handler himself, a thick-bodied, thick-bearded man with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and dressed in brown pants and a leather smock, stepped up behind the eraks and snapped at the mutts in an odd language. Snarling, the eraks cowered and slunk away back into their dark sanctuaries. Two began going at it, tearing, roaring, and struggling for the throat. The handler beat them apart with a stout stick of what looked to be bone.

When the eraks bolted and the team was near, the Handler – a man named Culs – observed their approach indifferently. John smiled at the man and nodded a greeting.

" Culs."

Culs nodded back. " Master Sheppard." Those in position of leadership were always referred to as master. " Tryin' again, then?"

John stopped before the erak handler and shrugged. " Trying something."

Finally, Culs grinned broadly. " Somethin' Bettern' nothin'. That's want me father would say." He then slapped his thick hand onto Sheppard's slender back. The blunt force made John stagger, the air to rush from his lungs, and – it felt like – his spine to shudder. Beckett was right, it was a miracle that John wasn't a cripple. The good doctor had been rather viciously vociferous about the bruises left behind by Culs' hammer-like hand. The handler meant no harm by it, and John didn't have the heart (or the humility) to tell the big guy that his form of greeting was hazardous to John's health. Plus, of all the Mykotes in the village, Culs was the only one not prone to giving into prejudices. He was neither here nor there on any political issue, and welcomed any stranger since it was a chance to show of his skills as a handler. John wasn't going to sacrifice the established camaraderie just because of a few hand-shaped bruises on his back – well, not quite yet at any rate. A man's spine could only take so much.

Culs fell into step beside John as they made their way over packed dirt toward the Council house. Dirt and smoke-smudged faces peered out of glass-less windows or from barely open doors at the Lanteans and their 'technology'. Birds like long-necked chickens with feather crests along their heads darted and squawked. One came too close to a building, and a hairless head shot out of a wide hole and snatched the bird without a sound faster than John could blink. He shuddered.

" What'd ya hope to accomplish today?" Culs asked casually.

" Permission to explore the area. Maybe with a guide. You think your elders would go for that?"

An erak slunk toward John, snarling and sniffing at him. Culs thunked it on the nose with the bone-stick, and it took off barking. " I don't see why not. Lettin' the Cys find ya then?" Culs was also the only Mykote who referred to the Cyladrans as Cys. The big man chuckled. " Hate to dissapoint, Master Sheppard, but that goes beyond not goin' to happen."

John stopped and tilted his head back, sighing. " Culs, there's gotta be a way for us to meet these people. I can't honestly believe they're this freakin' shy since you keep insisting that they're so wickedly advanced." He dropped his head and turned to face Culs. " Considering if their techno-wizards like you say they are, and they exist, and are still around unless that technology failed them. Why the reluctance for a little get together? We'd be out of your hair for good. Isn't that what your elders want?"

Still grinning, Culs shrugged. " I can't tell ya what you wish to hear, Master Sheppard. I'm not knowin' much myself of the matter. The Cys use what's forbidden, so they're banished forever. For that reason, talk on 'em tends to be minimized. Ya don't go talkin' about the folk who go 'an do the bad. They's to be ignored."

Rodney came up beside them, mopping his face with a cloth. " Like the way we're being ignored?"

Culs chuckled. " Ya not be knowin' ignored then. The elders spoke with ya, that's not bein' ignored. They see ya as ignorant, not willfully rebellin' like the Cys."

They continued on toward the large hut as dirty faces flitted looks at them through more gaping windows. Culs went on ahead to enter the council hall and make the appropriate announcement of arrivals. John and team entered a few minutes after Culs exited and bid enter into a dimly lit and stuffy room with a long table of rickety wood at the far end. John's eyes adjusted enough to the gloom enabling him to make out the wrinkled and sag-eyed faces of the elders.

" Hey guys, gals," John said with a smile.

The middle elder, a bald man with a white beard, sighed. " Master Sheppard. We had hoped to see the last of ya. Our answer is still no. We're havin' no contact with the Cyladrans. Now nor ever."

John nodded in a show of understanding, though he still didn't fully get it. Why have the means to make contact if you never used it? And what – exactly – were their means? In all the time spent with the Mykotes in the hopes of making contact with the Cys by happenstance, John had never been able to crack that enigma.

" Well, first off," John began, " we tend to be obnoxiously persistent. However, you're in luck, because we aren't here to ask about the Cys. We're here to request your permission to explore the area, take a broader look at your world. And if we happen to run into the Cys, all the better for us, and also the better for you since you'll have had nothing to do with it."

The dusky, dusty conditions of the meeting hall made it hard to read expressions, considering if the elders ever expressed anything at all. John had to wonder if the so-called elders were actually younger than they appeared, and being stuck inside this sweat box had aged them prematurely. Even standing, the place was reforming John's weariness from this morning. He shifted his weight onto his other foot, and clenched his jaw to prevent a yawn.

The elders leaned in to mumble amongst themselves. A female elder to the right of the silver-bearded spokesman for the pack lifted her head.

" We're... needin' a moment to confer. Please step outside that we might talk in private."

John let out a relieved breath. Waits he could handle as long as it was anywhere but where he was standing now. He and the team stepped out into the musky but still tolerable air of outside, and stood milling about the door. Culs was already gone, which John didn't feel too comfortable about what with all the erak eyes flashing from their holes.

Rodney folded his arms and did a nervous glance-about. " This is a waste of time. Why do we need these people's permission just to look around? I mean it's not exactly like they have a domineering presence on this world, and it's not like there's much they could do to stop us."

John narrowed his eyes at Rodney. " Because it's polite, McKay. Besides, you really want to piss off a people with that," he jerked his head toward the nearest erak hole, " for pets? Besides, we're trying to establish at least a tolerable enough relationship so that if something goes wrong, we can turn to these people for help. You're a scientist, McKay, I thought you scientist types couldn't survive without logic?"

Rodney huffed out a breath. " Logic, Colonel, is realizing that these people wouldn't help us even if they thought us deities. Asking permission is pointless. Hell, talking to them in the first place was pointless. We have no proof saying that these Cyladrans exist, and their supposed technology could be stuff we've already got. I say we just go back while there's still daylight, grab a puddle jumper, and get this whole exploration matter over with – because I can already tell you that we're not going to find a dang thing except erak crap."

As though Rodney had said the magic word, a snarl sounded, and the physicist whirled around to find an erak hunching up as though in preparation for a pounce. Rodney stumbled back, choking out a small yelp of alarm. The erak stalked closer, slavering and sniffing.

" Son of a..." John growled, and taking the butt of his P-90 whacked the ugly cur on the nose. It yipped, and slunk off. He then turned to Teyla.

" What do you think?"

Teyla's eyes seemed to be roaming everywhere, with her head following. Reactions of people were just as much a part of the surrounding as dirt and birds, and what John observed in Teyla was cause enough to have him go rigid and alert.

" I agree with you, Colonel," Teyla said, still roving. " If we are to explore, even with a guide, it would be wise to ensure that the Mykotes remain on our side."

John turned his gaze to Ronon, and felt a jolt of alarm to see the former runner doing a glance-about similar to Teyla's, but wearing a look that was even less promising. Ronon was better than a dog at sensing something off.

" What?" John asked, then felt his heart drop. " Please tell me you don't feel like we're being watched."

" We are," he growled. Then jerked his chin toward the window of the nearest hut. Several pale faces darted out of sight.

Rodney's jaw dropped. " I could have told you that!" He snapped. " Of course we're being watched, because the locals are nuts!"

John smiled tightly at McKay. " But they're not deaf, McKay. So shut – up."

" They do act strangely," Teyla said.

" You mean they weren't already?" Rodney replied.

" Can it, McKay," John growled. " What do you mean, Teyla? At the risk of boosting McKay's self-impression of being always right, what's so different about today as opposed to when we were here the last couple of times?"

" No one is outside."

Rodney scrunched his brow. " And that's a bad thing how? Personally I find being stared at through windows more tolerable than being stared at in person."

John looked from hut to hut, catching faces and eyes before they vanished back into the interior darkness. These people were waiting for something. At least that was the impression John got. Watching and waiting, watching and waiting. His initial theory was correct, fear was rampant. It was probably why the eraks were in such a snarling tizzy. Even now two more of the curs were slinking closer only to cower back. Association – fear led to blood, and the eraks were hungry with all the fear pheromones simmering in the air like smoke from a barbecue. There was supposed to be blood – something to hunt – and the only living flesh present was standing outside the Council Hall doors.

They were just waiting for the whistle.

" People are officially avoiding us like the plague, McKay," John finally stated. " They weren't this shy when we first came, or the second time, or third. And where'd Culs go?"

The situation was sinking in for McKay, because his face went slack. " Yeah, where is the – um – demon-dog tamer?"

John's heart started frantically pulverizing itself against his ribs. Give him one of Teyla's wraith premonitions, evidence of Genii presence, or even a village full of pissed-off plow pushers charging at them with pitchforks. He was willing enough for any of it, because it was tangible, visual, and familiar. If something had to go wrong, then let it happen, even if it was a trap.

Give him something to shoot.

Until something actually happened, John didn't know what to do. Leave, they might be followed. Stay, they might be taken. And all considering if anything was going on at all to begin with. The Mykotes might simply be expressing their dislike for the techno-loving aliens that wouldn't go away, for all John knew.

An erak slunk by the group, yellow eyes flashing like lightning and saliva leaving a moist trail in the dirt. Other than that, the village was quiet enough to hear one of the chicken-things scratching.

" Maybe we should leave..." John began. The doors of the council hall groaned open, and Sheppard jumped. He whirled around to see a near-bald, liver-spotted head feathered with wispy white hairs poke out.

" M-Master Sheppard," croaked the ancient, quavering voice. John took a step toward the door, and the old man shrank back, ready to close it.

" W-w-we have come to a decision," he said. " The answer is n-n-no."

He then pulled the door shut, and John heard the creak and thunk of a bolt being shoved into place.

John allowed himself two seconds to blink in surprise, then whirled around and started marching out of the village. " That's it, we're gone."

No one argued that point. The rest of the team followed.

" Do we really need their permission?" Rodney mumbled. John didn't reply. He wanted to say no, and that they would come back in a jumper, not so much to accomplish what they came for, but to piss the Mykotes off. John hated subterfuge. If the Mykotes were afraid of the Cys, if there was some kind of repercussion in revealing their location, okay then, John could dig that. He understood. What he couldn't wrap his brain around was how long it had taken for the Mykotes to finally – literally – shut the door in their faces. Any other planet would have been 'get the hell off our rock' followed by the proverbial boot through the gate on day one. In fact, John was becoming quite used to that. Whether hatred was the reason, or because something bad would go down if the team stayed, it didn't matter. They were back home within hours of stepping through the gate.

So what did it mean when it took longer? A trap? Sounded about right to John. So where was it then? Waiting for them at the gate, for them to dial the gate? Would they come before to take them, or after to follow through? How the hell was Sheppard supposed know what to do and what not to do when he wasn't even freakin' sure there was a trap!

" Master Sheppard!"

John jerked to a stop, stumbling from being ripped from his thoughts. He turned his head to see Culs hurrying toward them from behind. John turned.

" Master Sheppard," Culs said again. " Before ya go, I'd like to call ya by for a swal."

John wrinkled his brow. " Huh?"

" Swal, grup... a drink. Would ya be up for one?"

John looked at each of his team, none of whom looked up for a 'swal', tense as they were. He returned his gaze to Culs.

" I don't think now's a good time, Culs."

Culs chuckled. " Ya not lettin' those erak hide-heads drivin ya down now, are ya? Come, good Master of the water-ring world, have a swal. It'd be brief."

Culs ended up not giving John much of a choice when the handler's heavy hand planted itself on John's shoulder. He began guiding John toward the hut that was Culs', located just outside the village on the edge of the forest.

" For a fighter, yer a spindly one, Master John, no offendin' ya."

" None offendin' taken," John murmured, wincing at the grip that seemed to be trying to push his collarbone deeper into his chest.

Culs' hut was like all the others, square and thatch-roof made of mud and grass. Eraks were everywhere, drolling rivers and turning dirt to mud with their kneading claws.

" Ya and me, Master Sheppard," Culs said. " My place isn't vast for yer folk. I'll bring 'em drinks. But ya and me, we've been on the hunt, ya've seen what my eraks can do. That calls for a toast between us."

Something about this made John's skin prickle and warnings sound in his brain like screams. He tried to pull back without seeming to, with polite 'no thank yous', but doubted Culs even noticed since John hardly even moved. The grip was worse than an iron vice, and John's shoulder was really starting to hurt.

Culs shoved the door inward and guided John inside, shutting it behind before the others could enter.

The house was small, with a bed in the left-hand corner, a table on the right, a cupboard, and small stack of crates. The walls were dotted with pegs holding whips, leashes, and muzzles dangling like dead vines. Culs released John and went to the cupboard to pull down some clay mugs and a piture.

" I'll pull the best malt I have," Culs said, and removed out several clay bottles.

It was all how Culs had said it would be, an innocent invitation for a swal.

Until John felt the cold pressure of what could only be a weapon press into the back of his neck.


	3. Subterfuge

Rodney looked up at the sky, down at the door shut in their faces, toward the woods, then the field, to Ronon, then to Teyla. Anywhere and everywhere an erak couldn't come into his line of sight.

 _Don't look, don't look, don't look, don't look..._ but out of sight, out of mind wasn't going to work, because Rodney could still hear.

The eraks slavered, whined, growled, thumped, snarled - sometimes close, sometimes way too close. Rodney's spine went numb at the feel of fiery hot erak breath soaking through his pant leg and into his skin. Rodney inched his foot to the side, bringing the other foot with it, and did it again, bringing him in closer to the permanently nonchalant Ronon and the lack of any eraks sniffing about his personal space.

" I _hate_ these things!" he hissed.

Ronon sighed, and crossed his arms over his weapon. " But they do seem to love you."

" Fear, Dr. McKay," Teyla said. " They smell your fear. You must relax and they will not bother you."

McKay gulped and took a deep, shuddering breath. But of course, much to his expectations, his heart only picked up a mad-cap pounding. An erak slunk closer, crawling on its belly as though in submission, though things in submission rarely bared their fangs.

" Just whack it on the nose," Ronon growled. " Like this." He didn't so much as whack, but kick, and the erak scurried back with a snarl.

Rodney turned his attention back to the door, grinding his teeth. " What the hell is taking so long? I mean is 'no' really such a hard thing to say? Or listen to? And shouldn't they be getting wasted out here with the rest of us? Where are our drinks?"

Not that Rodney was particularly thirsty, more like increasingly uneasy.

" No, just say no. Everyone on earth knows to just say no. It's like a... not motto... maybe advice, really important advice. When someone you hardly know or don't know at all comes up and offers you something, you just say no. We've had it ingrained in our brains since childhood, and the one time it would actually come in handy for us, and Sheppard had to forget for the sake of 'good manners'. I mean, yeah, Culs is big and a lot scarier than Ronon – no offense..."

Ronon didn't even acknowledge that anything had been said. Rodney knew he was being pointedly ignored, but didn't care.

" But that has yet to be a reason for Sheppard to become all tongue-tied at such a crucial moment when something might be going on..."

" The eraks might have been an incentive," Ronon replied, " for Sheppard to take up Culs' offer."

Rodney opened his mouth for a retort, them grimaced. " Good point. So what's taking so long?" He stepped up to the door and placed his ear against the thick, rough wood. He could hear sounds, mumbling, sometimes increasing in volume. He thought he heard John's voice, and Culs. Was that another voice? Or maybe John again, already altered by drink? Or altered because Culs was beating the snot out of him.

Rodney was tempted to knock, but uncertainty held him back. He was scared, he admitted it, and not of the eraks. The team was nervous, edgy, suspicious with good reason – and when a team made up of a soldier, a fighter, and a warrior leader got nervous, it was time to be _exceedingly_ afraid.

Rodney removed his ear from the door and took a step back. " M-maybe I should knock?" Maybe pound, demanding that John get his butt in gear, and that he could get drunk all he wanted the moment they got home. Even the sake of diplomacy wasn't worth getting inebriated over if something really were going down.

Natural thoughts from an impatient, nerve-rattled mind. But under that visible surface, Rodney knew good and well that John wasn't getting drunk. Rodney would never admit – out loud, even if his life depended on it – that John was anything but stupid. To admit that, he could never call John stupid again, and would need a new way to vent frustration through verbal abuse flung at Sheppard; and he needed that outlet, because John knew how to take it without resorting to physical violence. But admittance aside, Rodney acknowledged that Sheppard was smart in more aspects than just intellectually. He was not, by any means, getting drunk, so that left something else entirely going on behind that door.

Thinking John was getting hammered was less intimidating, so he stuck to it. It was also something to irk John about, should it prove true.

" Think I should knock?" Rodney asked again. No answer. Now it was getting ridiculous. He could handle being purposefully ignored, but not to the extent that even a simple question went disregarded.

" Hey, I asked..." Rodney turned, and his heart shot up into his throat.

Ronon and Teyla were lying sprawled on the ground, arms splayed, weapons lying in nerveless fingers. Rodney gasped, only to choke on his own breath and stumble on whirling back to the door.

" Sheppard!" he cried, pounding on the wood with his palm. Something sharp struck him in the spine. Cold spread along his backbone, flowing into his nerves like a river until ice became the dominant sensation. He gaped like a dieing fish before the world grayed, then blackened, and he felt the sickening rush of decent as he dropped to the ground like a discarded sack of rocks.

SGASGASGA

John's eyes remained fix as though in permanence to Culs. The handler poured an amber liquid smelling faintly of apple and disinfectant into three of the cups. The pressure at his neck was sharp, and hard enough to seem like his neck-bone was pressing up against his esophagus. He swallowed back the sensation of something lodged in his throat.

" My sorrows for this, master Sheppard," Culs said. He stoppered the bottle, placing it and two others back into the cupboard. He then turned, taking up one of the mugs and leaning his back against the wall. " My deep sorrows. But ya can't be faultin' me. It's what ya be desirin'."

" But not in this manner," John tightly replied. His weapon was yanked from his arms, and his 9 mm from its holster around his thigh. The weapons were tossed onto Culs' bed, and following that the painful pressure at John's neck finally relented. John's assailant moved around him toward the table.

The man looked to be around John's age, give or take, and height. The likenesses ended there. The man was broad-shouldered and more thickly built – less than Culs, but definitely more than John. He had blond hair the color of old straw, long enough to stop just above his ears, and his narrow eyes were a kind of storm blue leaning toward gray. His uniform was a green so dark it looked almost black, pants and boots included. The weapon – well – John could only describe it as being utterly 'sci-fi'. Most worlds – for the most part – went as far as weapons akin to a musket or rifle. This looked even more advanced than John's P-90 or a wraith stunner – larger than a 9 mil, with a narrow nozzle. _Lazergun_ ; that's what came to mind as Sheppard studied it over before returning his focus back to his captor.

The man wasn't being particularly expressive. Save for a slight rise in his eyebrow as he looked John over, there wasn't much to read in the facial department. The man lifted one of the cups and took a small, deliberate sip.

Then, he smiled. " Master Sheppard. Surprised?"

John lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. " Not really."

" Been expectin' us, then?" His accent wasn't pronounced like Culs' but it was there.

" We've been expecting something, yeah. Glad to see you don't dissapoint."

The man nodded. " You're perceptive. Good trait to have. I'm named Menk, by the way. First Enforcer Menk, but calling me Menk suits me fine enough. You're not from here, so no need for calling me master or enforcer."

" Hadn't planned on it," John said.

Menk took a another sip. " Will you be showing me the same courtesy... John?"

John didn't reply. Menk smirked and took another sip. He then set his cup down and lifted the third, holding it out to John.

" Not thirsty," John shot. Menk shrugged and set the cup back down.

" So be it. But you don't know what you're missin'. Now, on to business, I think? I don't need to tell you who I am."

" Cyladrans."

Menk gave a soft laugh. " _Very_ perceptive." Menk sat on the edge of the table, reclaiming his drink. " Now then, seein' as how your questions were answered in a blink, time for you to answer some questions of my own. What do you want with us?"

" What we're doing now," John replied. " Talking. We just want to talk, get to know you... your likes, dislikes, favorite band, favorite color..."

" Why?"

" We're explorers. It's what we like to do – make friends." John smirked back. " You wanna be our friends?"

Menk laughed again. " You're a funny one, I see."

To which Culs replied, " He is that – if ya get half of what he's sayin'."

Menk nodded. " Good, I like a man with humor. But... Somethin' tells me, John, you're not an easy one to talk to. Now, this is just a personal opinion, maybe a quick assumption, but you are bein' rude. Refusin' drink, not returnin' the favor of first name basis... You wish to talk, that's fine, but you need to express a finer manner than what you're doin' now. You see John, if you want to be our friends, then you have to win our trust."

 _Crap. He has a point._ But trust was a two-way street. John pointed at Menk's weapon.

" Not exactly inspiring trust with me, at the moment. Why should I return the favor?"

Menk lifted his gun. " This? Oh, this is just precaution, a kind of stunner, you might say. Totally harmless unlike your projectile weapons. Since you've been seekin' us, I say by right we should be callin' the terms. We'll talk, John, but on our ground. You've got some answerin' to do."

John had kept any reaction under a tight leash, but that leash was starting to strain. " Answering?"

" Yes. You're from the water-city. Rumor's got our ear that... something happened to that city."

John didn't think it possible that the already present bad feeling could get any worse. He hadn't realized until now, but he was nervous, very nervous, and it was increasing.

" What rumor? What are you talking about?"

Menk shook his head. " John, don't play ignorant. Our dirt-scratching brothers may be more naive than babies, but that doesn't mean you should take us for bein' the same. We get round, just like you. We've been places, even if we know how to keep from leavin' tracks. We've seen the aftermath of the culls - barely savin' our people on return – and heard the tales." Menk leaned forward. " _Your t_ ale John. But that's premature. We best talk where it's more suitable. The Mykotes, they're not pleased when we pop out of the woods. Not that they can do anything about it, but we don't like them feelin' uncomfortable. We need them, and they're still our folk."

" What tales?" John asked, raising his voice. " What do you know?"

Menk set down his drink and raised his gun. " Not here, John. Not here. Now, turn around. It's best done in the back. More effective and you won't be pukin' your innards out."

John's heart pounded, and his breath increased. " What are you doing? Why like this?"

" We survive on keeping secrets, John, and we can't risk that. Now, turn around."

John took a step back, reaching out behind him for the door handle. A quick enough dash out the entrance, and he just might make it.

He heard a pounding on the door, and the sound of McKay's panicked voice call out his name, only to go quiet in a heartbeat. John shivered in disgust as bile clawed into his throat to burn like acid. " What did you do?" His eyes flicked to his weapons out of reach on the bed.

Menk shrugged. " Necessity John. Culs?"

Culs lunged forward and grabbed John before the Colonel could even grasp the door handle. Culs yanked John around so that he was standing before the big man, his back exposed to Menk. There came no sound, only a sensation like an icicle piercing his spine, spreading frigid poison through his system. He couldn't even curse when his vision grayed, went black, and he crumpled.

SGASGASGASGA

It was almost laughable that there should follow pain after a total bodily shutdown in which every nerve ceased to function. For once, that pain didn't originate from the skull. Sheppard came back into the waking world with a sharp throb in his back, as though the icicle were still lodged snugly between his vertebrae. Following that, the smell of cedar, dirt, and suffocating animal musk. His fingers curled reflexively against the pain, and he felt the hard and gritty floor beneath give way – more dirt.

Sight always came last, because it took a lot of effort for John to peel his eyelids apart. Thankfully for his head – which may not have been aching but still insisted on at least a dull pulsating – no glaring light stabbed into his eyes to tear at his brain. Everything was dim, like dusk, and it took several blinks before John's eyes cleared enough for him to distinguish details.

First he saw, obviously, dirt, overlaid with bits of straw. John rolled his eyes up. Sunlight streamed in thin shafts through chinks in boarded walls. He heard sounds, muffled, distant, and constant; murmuring voices.

Oriented enough as necessity demanded, the events that led up to his current state finally flooded his memory, sending out a surge of adrenaline to finish off the remnant effects of the silent stunner. John bolted upright with a small gasp of alarm, and snapped his head wildly around.

He was in some sort of empty hut, or maybe a large storage shed or – by the smell – a miniature barn. There was a pile of hay in the corner, and that was about it say for John's own presence.

Not a single team member in sight. John's heart jackhammered out of control. Separation was a weakening tactic, especially if one was used as leverage to get the others to cooperate.

John massaged the ache in his back that was gradually melting away to become a tolerable annoyance. He moved deliberately when getting to his feet, grunting when the throb pulsated faster and colder. But once he was up, it diminished even quicker until it was just a memory. He went straight for the door, gripped the handle, and rattled it. It hardly made a sound except for a small creak.

Abandoning that, he rapped his knuckles on the gray but solid wood. He kicked at it, even bashed his shoulder against it (big mistake) but the wood was as hard as brick.

John swallowed against a dry throat and coughed. Dust swirled and writhed like smoke in the thin streams of light through the cracks. Add to that an increase of the heat, and Sheppard would start having a nice little reminisce of his Afghanistan days – especially when he took cover in a building unnervingly similar to this one. Except this one didn't sport the moisture-sucking inferno of air that had nearly killed him.

In situations like this, John had two options; sit quietly and wait to be retrieved, or try to speed things along. He immediately opted for the latter, since in situations like this he wasn't a patient man, and he had the condition of his team to determine.

John stepped back and gave another more massive kick to the door. " Hey! Anyone out there! It's dry in here, Menk, so how about that drink? Or food? What's a prisoner gotta do to get some food? Anyone! Hey, I know someone's out there!"

There came no reply; no harsh snap to be quiet, shifting of weight, or otherwise. John hadn't been expecting any less, just as long as it was made known that he was awake.

He did another kick at the door for good measure, then began to pace the misty confines.

A drink. They were captured and contained because John had given in to the king of all ruses – a drink. And John hadn't even been thirsty.

So why did he go? Not for diplomatic purposes, that was for sure. Because Culs was – had been – a nice guy? Maybe. Because Culs and his hell hounds were scary? He would admit to that. Watching an erak attack was like watching a shark feeding frenzy. The monsters moved as one, and didn't stop until the pray was dead, even if one of their own number was lost in the process.

Okay, then – by that logic, and Culs' absolute and solitary control of the most dangerous animals on this planet - they'd been taken even before the drink was offered. They'd been taken the moment they stepped into the village.

John was grudgingly impressed. Now that was subtlety. The Cys were good, three steps ahead good, and that made John's insides shrivel. If these people wanted something, they could probably get it before John even knew what it was.

John gave another bone-rattling kick to the door. " Life's too short for this bull!" Team separation and solitary confinement were also a mind-altering strategy. Make them wait, sweat, wait some more, then pop up when it was least expected. John turned his back on the door and resumed pacing. With nothing to do but think, his mind inadvertently wandered.

 _Young Goodman Brown,_ that's what all this felt like. John had read that story in high school, and only now remembered it. A guy thinking all was right in the world takes a little stroll through the woods, only to come upon his entire village – pastor and wife included – doing some hard-core devil worshiping.

Granted there was no devil worshiping going on as far as John could tell, and this wasn't exactly colonial America, but deception was rampant. You think you know a place, have it pegged, then wham-bam thank you ma'am it drives the icy knife of shock into your brain and leaves you staggering from the blow.

Except Sheppard wasn't staggering, he was stewing, both in anger and unease. That was the difference between him and good 'ole Brown – John hadn't been naïve. He'd been expecting this because all the signs had been there. But had it helped at all? Hell no. They were still screwed.

Unless John was looking at the situation all wrong. Maybe this was just a trust issue after all, and things would start looking up once the Cys knew the Lanteans weren't a threat.

 _And the wraiths'll sign a peace treaty and go vegan._

John halted in pacing when he heard mumbles increasing in volume, and the thud of heavy footfalls.

" Stand down," someone said, which answered the question of whether any guards were present. John whirled at the rattle of keys then the thunk of a lock being removed. The door creaked open, light pouring in like a blinding flood. John squinted and blink against the brightness. It was momentarily blocked when someone stepped through, a shadow against the blaze.

" Glad to see the stun didn't have any ill effect."

John glared narrow-eyed at the silhouette of Menk. He stepped to the side, just enough for the glare of the outside to diminish. Spots danced in John's vision so that even in the tolerable light, he still couldn't see the man's face all that well.

" It's not exactly something I'm not used to," John replied. " I'd take a stun to a bullet any day."

" And a bullet to a cull?"

" Definitely."

Menk nodded, then snapped his fingers. A man dressed in the same dark green uniform as Menk and hefting a sophisticated looking rifle on his shoulder handed Menk a wooden stool. Menk moved a few steps further into the shed, setting the stool in the center, but keeping close to the door. John was glad to see he inspired at least a small twinge of malaise.

Menk dropped onto the stool with a contented sigh as though he'd been on his feet all day. " I'd offer you one, John," he said, " but somethin' tells me you wouldn't take it."

" And whatever's telling you that... would be right." John's eyes adjusted from the blinding assault enough to make out Menk's smirk. They fell into nerve-shredding silence, initiating a contest of wills to see who would break it first. But John wasn't going to waste time sucking up to his own pride.

" Where are we?" John asked.

" An outpost, one of many. We're a people on the move, John, and keepin' on the move can be taxing. These outposts are our respite, not to mention our holds when the wraith come to cull."

John furrowed his brow at this. " What, is it some kind of facility? I'm mean obviously we aren't underground..."

" No, just in an old village."

John waited for an elucidation, but Menk went mute. He was baiting John to ask questions, forcing him to dredge information from Menk by Menk's choice, and so forcing on John the fact that Menk was in absolute control.

John was fine with that – for now – as long as it brought him some answers.

" And how, exactly, does an old village offer protection against a wraith beam?"

Menk smiled and planted his hands firmly on his own knees. " The answer to that – _Master Sheppard_ \- would be the very reason you've been seekin' us out." He then pulled his stunner from the holster at his waist. " Devices – or technology, as you call it. We've collected quite a bit. Not anythin' that would turn a wraith horde, but enough to keep them circlin' like eraks chasin' their tails. They're not a joy to procure, but they're worth the price. Especially what we got protectin' this village. Kind of like a shield, but not like a shield. It's this generator, you might call it. It creates an illusion, hides us. You set it up in the center of the outpost, and it creates a wall of invisibility around us for as far as needed. It's not a guarantee, just better than nothin'. It lasts a good couple of weeks, then needs time to recharge. By the time it's ready, we're at another outpost. Do you understand the cycle we live, John? It's kept us alive for centuries. Kept the Mykotes alive. You'd be surprised how open minded they get when it comes to wraith culls. We wouldn't give them much mind, but we need them, need their skills at farming, raising animals. We give a little, they give a little, and that's the way we are."

" Until, what?" John said. " We came along and started asking for you?"

Menk chuckled. " Please, John, everyone comes askin' for us. It's an appealin' life, being able to out think the wraith. Having devices they don't even know exist, let alone could ever dream up. We don't give an erak's hind that we're sought out. It's flatterin', really. And you should be flattered we answered your call. Not many get to set eyes on us Cys."

Menk, still grinning like a hyena, went quiet again, waiting for John's next obvious question. John chose that moment to give into silence as well. Now felt as good a time as any to throw Menk's game back in his own face. Seconds ticked like water drops resounding in John's skull. His heart took up the rhythm, or seemed to, and the only sound came from his own breathing and the roar of blood pounding through his ears.

Menk didn't even twitch a facial muscle, but something changed. It came about in the eyes, the draining away of all amusement. But it wasn't like Menk had become suddenly pissed. He was still smiling, even if it wasn't as genuine as before. They had reached the meat of the conversation – the truth, whatever it was. Whatever the answer to John's unasked question - _why are we so special? -_ it was going to be major, and possibly something neither of them liked.

John had definitely picked the right time to keep his mouth shut. If there was a chance Menk would never talk to uphold this competition, a part of John was all for it.

" You took something from us."

It was a statement, one that made John flinch despite being utterly confused.

" Huh?"

" You took something from us, John. Now, I'm not just talkin' Cys. Everyone, you took something from all the worlds."

John swallowed, hoping Menk didn't see it. The first thought to pop into his head was peace of mind; peace of mind knowing that the wraith wouldn't awaken for a long time. And John wouldn't blame them for that.

" You come from the water city, the home of the Ancestors. Now, tales have it; that city isn't much of a look-at these days, thanks to your folk."

Definitely the right time to keep his mouth shut.

Menk stood, abruptly, and John went rigid. His eyes flicked from Menk's unreadable face to the stunner held loosely in his hand.

" That city was to be ours, John. Men have gone to grave having spent their entires lives searching for the keys to unlock the ring-door leading to that city. We've got text that speak of it, and a promise made by our forefathers that whoever found the city would have right to claim it. It was to be their legacy to us, and our destiny to be its keepers."

Menk's smile faded, matching what John could only assume was the spark of anger in his eyes. He moved toward John, methodical as a snake coming up behind a mouse. John held his ground, meeting Menk's darkened gaze.

Menk kept his voice level, unaltered, as though what was expressed in his features wasn't really what he was feeling.

" Then you come. You 'Lanteans'. But you're not really from there, or anywhere. Not in this galaxy. You're strangers in every possible way, say that you somehow knew of the Ancestors and their city. So you come here, and take what isn't even yours, what rightfully belongs to us... And you lose it? Let it be destroyed?"

" It would have happened," John replied, just as levelly, " no matter who had the city. It's power was low, it had no shields. It would have fallen no matter who had control of it."

" Yeah, but we had the means to hide it," Menk said. He reached down to his side, and slid a silver knife with a bone-handle from a leather sheath. " Devices are our game, John," he tapped the tip of the knife against John's sternum, " and devices were how we were going to protect that important city. You and your people should have left well enough alone. It'd still be around if you had. We would have let you visit, we're no sticks. We share when it suits the purpose. You ruined everything, John. You and you 'Lanteans'. Shred it, John, you erak bait don't even deserve to be called that. You're not from here... You don't belong here. The city belongs to the natives, John, and we're the natives. And I have to tell you, it doesn't sit too well with us, what you've done."

Menk moved fast, so fast there wasn't time to react. Dropping his stunner, grabbing John by the shoulder, Menk whipped round him, moving simultaneously to kick John in the back of the leg to drive him to his knees, while digging his fingers into John's hair and pulling his neck back until the vertebrae felt folded in half. One foot was pressed on John's calf and the point of the knife pricked John's spine.

" There's to be some payback for it. There has to be. You've ruined everything, for everyone. It's fair-play that you should pay."

 _Ah hell._ Panting, John swallowed. It was times like these when all thoughts of self were chucked out the window.

" Then I'm the one who needs to pay," he said, gasping when the point dug deeper. " I'm serious! Okay, so my people claimed the city, fine. But... Guess what..." He knew he was going to regret this with every fiber of his being, but didn't care in the immediate if it meant his team getting out near to unscathed. " I woke up the wraith. I'm the one who cut their hibernation short. They took some of our people, and I went to get them – kind of pissed off the entire hive and they came after us looking for a little revenge. In terms of meeting out punishment, you can't get much better than me. The rest of my team – Ronon and Teyla especially – you can't even fault them for the loss of Atlantis. Rodney, he's just a scientist, not a soldier. He deals with technology – devices! He's the kind of guy you want sticking around. Hell, he's the kind of guy you want on your side."

Menk jerked John's head back, and the knife dug deeper. John grimaced from the pain and the grate of the knife tip against bone with gritted teeth.

" Son of a...! Crap! Come on! You wanna be pissed at someone, be pissed at me all you want! I freakin' deserve it and you know it. The rest of my team doesn't. They're innocent!"

John was looking up involuntarily at Menk's coldly impassive face. A slow smile crept on Menk's lips, one that made John's heart drop into his stomach.

" You're a noble one. 'Take me and spare the rest', I like that in a fellow. Means they know what's important. I may take you up on it. Or I may not. It's all for me to say, John, not really you, but you've made upstanding points and I can't disregard that. We're not lookin' for blood-spill, since that usually leads to war and we're not too bright on havin' to defend ourselves from anything but the wraith. Still, there's been a crime, and we've got the right to see fit justice performed. If death's involved, it's on Lantean heads, not ours. You can't come to a strangers domain, take what you will, and think nothin' of it. You've robbed us of our destiny, and that isn't right."

Menk released John with another jerk of the head, following it up with a shove to the ground by bashing his booted foot into John's back between the shoulder blades. He then walked around John, grabbing the stool on his way out.

" We'll bring by water. You'll eat tomorrow," he said. The door creaked closed, the lock thunked into place, and dusk settled back in the shed.

John lifted his head, spitting out dust. He reached out behind to touch the burning spot on his back. He pulled his hand away to find blood smeared on his finger-tips.

His assumptions of the situation had been right the first time.

TBC...


	4. The Positive

Day one – official day one now that John had a preliminary clue as to what was going on – he awoke to the thump of the lock and a guard leaning in to set a metal bowl and tin cup on the floor. He flitted out, shoving the door shut and thumping the lock back into place.

John rubbed eyes dry enough to crumble from his sockets. Sleeping on hay gave a whole new meaning to hay fever. It wasn't just his nose that itched; every part of him felt colonized my miniscule mites having gold-rush fever on his flesh. And soft as hay might look from a distance, it poked – mercilessly.

John picked hay from his clothes with disgust while simultaneously scratching his skin raw. His fingernails snagged the pierced flesh of his back, and stinging pain shot through his nerves. With a hiss, he yanked his hand away and went viciously rigid until the pain passed. With a whispered expletive, he shivered away the evening chill that couldn't be entirely stayed off by the hay, then crawled toward his breakfast.

He stared into the tarnished bowl and his stomach cowered in terror.

Watered-down cream of wheat that had already seen the digestive tract and been puked back out – that's what they were serving him. It was thin, lumpy, with a smell like sour milk. Torture tactic number one; poor meal to weaken the body, thus weakening the mind, and effectively beating the defiant soul down into the dust. Whether John ate the sludge or not, it wouldn't matter. It was most likely nutrient fortified enough to keep him alive, but not to the point of allowing him to remain fit as a fiddle.

 _Who made up that term anyway? Fit as a fiddle. It's an instrument, not a body. Unless they're referring to keeping it tuned... tuned, instrument, tuned body..._ John didn't care if his mind wandered. It gave him something to do.

Seeing how all options were minimal if existent at all, John took the bowl and lifted it to his mouth. One sip was all it took, and he was spitting it back out in a spray of curds and whey (and whatever that hard, nasty lump was).

" Ah... Crap! That freakin' sucked!" _Horror, thy name is cesspool gruel._ He snatched the water and took a mouthful to rinse the offending taste from his tongue. Spraying that out, he took an actual swallow, just one to conserve what he had. Torture tactic two; thirst to create desperation. He knew he probably shouldn't have used his only water to rinse his mouth, but he'd been desperate – it was already starting.

The rest of the day passed uneventful. No one came, so no new food was brought much to John's expectations. Chances were, the rest of the team was suffering the same treatment, which brought about in John a constant pang of worry, sticking to him like a thorn he couldn't find to get rid of. Rodney's hyperglycemia wouldn't have him lasting long, and Menk would probably just sit back and watch as the aftermath of the condition did all the gruesome work for him.

Thinking on it was all the torture Menk needed to use against John. But if Rodney were smart (he would already be desperate) he would conserve the muck enough to stay off reactions for as long as possible. It wasn't a guarantee, just a poor attempt at assurance to keep the worry from causing John to break his foot against the door.

The day rolled on without him, slinking into the warmth of midday that made the shed feel like a tiny cardboard box that had sat in the sun for too long. To conserve water and cool down, John removed his shirt and sat with his back against those chinks in the boards where air snaked through the best. When evening came and the world cooled, John replaced his shirt and finished off the last half-inch of water still in the cup. Night arrived, darkest in the shed, bringing with it chilled temperatures that would have been more tolerable if John still had his jacket. Hunger was a black hole in his stomach, cold and sharp, emitting angry grunts from his gut.

But it still wasn't to the point that his guts would tolerate the sludge. Even in the dark, John could practically sense the presence of the offending bowl, and he shuddered. Exhausted even after having done nothing but pace and tell his stomach to clam up, he moved over to the hay pile and huddled into it, shifting and moaning with each poke and itch. Outside, the click of a cricket-wanna be was the only sound.

Until an erak howled.

Day two – same old dance. John awoke with a shiver and groan from limbs stiff enough to make him think they had frozen in place. He stretched, itched, pulled hay from his clothes, then crawled over to the bowl of congealing goo.

Still not desperate enough, though his hands shook slightly as he lifted the refilled cup. _When had that happened?_

He took a sip and set it down. Barely awake, still contemplating the gruel and its possible ingestive side effects, he caught the distinct noise of boot-falls, followed up by the click and thump of the lock. John barely managed to scramble to his feet when the door burst open and five men piled into the shed, grabbing Sheppard by both arms.

" What the..." He only got that far when one of the men yanked off John's shirt, while two others set about the task of removing his pants.

" Ah hell no!" he cried, jerking, kicking, writhing like a bucking bull. It only ended up serving their purpose of stripping him down to his boxer shorts. The cool morning air was like a slap to his bare skin, and he shivered, cringing, knowing good and well how it made him look but unable to stop it.

They proceeded to hall him outside, leaving his clothes on the dusty floor. It was early morning, the golden dawn when everything was amber-touched at the top but gray beneath the canopy. John saw the village for the first time, similar to a Mykote village, but the similarity ended there. Everyone in this village was clean, dressed either in dark green uniforms or everyday wear of slacks and shirts for the men, simple dresses for the women. Nothing ragged or dirt-stained about any of them, and several were holding some kind of technological device.

John was hauled twenty feet from the shed to a pole – a pole with a long chain bolted to the top. At this, John dug his bare heels into the ground.

" Oh no... no, no, no..." Visions of a public beating ran like wild fire through his brain. He shrank back as they neared the pole. His struggles were totally pointless, like a fly trying to wriggle from the sticky tongue of a frog. These guys were strong – Ronon strong. Speaking of the runner, John prayed like a dying man that the Sateden would pop out of the wood-works at any moment, guns a-blazing.

They came to the pole, and another of the soldiers picked up the other end of the chain. Dangling from it was a ring too big to hold one of Sheppard's wrists.

Not too big to go around his neck, though. They clasped it on with a click, then let it settle heavily on John's collarbones. He was finally released, and the men took several steps back to view their handy work with smug grins.

" Bit more filth. It'd look more as it should," said one.

" Give it time, Gad. Place is dusty. He'll be lookin' like the back-side of an erak in no time." The second soldier kicked the dust at John. Bits of dirt and rocks stung his shins.

They laughed, all of them, then left with shared pats on the back. John was left standing one article of clothing away from being in the buff. The daily comings and goings of the village slowed like a suddenly dammed river as every head and every eye turned in John's direction.

Now John was officially surprised. For all their fox-like attributes, the Cys were monumentally lacking in imagination. Even a public beating would have been a step up from being tethered to a pole in his boxers like some lowly frat house initiate. Humiliation was inevitable, but John wasn't a stranger to _Animal House_ style torture. College, Air Force, they all had their pointless and random acts of initiation. If Menk came at him with a wooden paddle, John was going to bust out laughing.

As for the here and now, John felt too confused to laugh. Was trust still an issue? Once John got a daily dose of humiliation, would it be followed up by laughter, release, a round of drinks, with a little peace-treaty signing on the side?

The slight burning at his back where the knife had been stuck was a big, reverberating no, and that's what made John nervous. This couldn't possibly be it – more like just the beginning.

Still, as John always liked to tell Rodney 'try to stay positive.' At least he was outside, breathing the fresh air, which in turn was clearing his head. Humiliation he could handle. It wasn't like he lived on this world to be forever subject to rumors and secretive snickers.

John moved to the pole and sat with his back to the slick, worn wood, his knees drawn up for his arms to rest across. He pitied dogs, and even felt a small inkling of pity for the eraks if this was how they were leashed. The metal was loose around John's neck, but the rim was biting into his collar bones and upper spine. Hunger wasn't helping his comfort situation, but he'd been in worse situations, and worse states than this. Feigning indifference was no feat for him – like breathing.

The day wore on. People stopped, stared, pointed, and laughed. John sat, or paced when sitting made his butt go numb. The only change was when a solider brought him a cup of shallow water. The burly man held the cup as John drank, then snatched it away after three gulps. Things didn't get interesting until late afternoon, when a group of boys ages eight to twelve milled about ten feet away like jackals waiting for the lion to leave the carcass. They whispered, pointed, and John tensed. He recognized the looks on their faces – some nervous, others elated. They were plotting.

Minutes later, the plot was revealed when three of the boys chucked rocks at John. One pelted his head, the other his arm, and the third a two pointer on his right ribcage.

" Hey!" he barked, scrambling to his feet and stalking out as far as the chain would let him. The boys laughed, dancing just out of reach. More rocks were thrown, and John was forced to duck them and allow the majority of the stones to strike his bare back.

The kids threw hard. But so could John. He grabbed rocks that landed nearby and started hurling them back at the brats. The kids scattered, yelling what could only be dirty words in Cyladran/Mykote.

" That's it, you little snots! Run home crying to mom!" John dropped back to the ground to rest against the pole when his legs took on the consistency of Jell-o. He was winded, which wasn't a good sign. Two days into this mess and he was already led-limbed and panting as though he'd just run up a hill, twice. Still trying to scrounge out the positive, John took into thankful consideration that the trees were thick enough to keep the sun off his back.

Nature made up for it with bugs – the sweat-suckers, joined by the blood-suckers. The sound of skin on skin as John smacked at the insects drew more eyes to him. John smirked at the women whispering in disgust, and the women eyeing him with small smiles of their own. Men either laughed, or shot him pissed glares.

When dusk settled, the soldiers returned to unchain John and 'escort' him bodily back to the shed. The moment he was dumped inside and the door slammed shut, John gave them the one-fingered salute, still wearing a smirk, then hurried back into his clothes when the chill air slipped like worms through the cracks in the walls. It was too dark to see, and in dressing he knocked over the bowl of sludge. No love loss there.

Day three – Talk about deja vu, except John awoke to being man-handled, which was a far more frightening experience with sleep still clinging like dew to his brain. He shouted and struggled, pulling and kicking with his heart slamming hard enough to leave a bruise on his lungs.

" Get off of me!" Any other time he would have beat them back with the panicked ferocity of a cornered animal. But even spook-addled as he was, he was aware enough of his attempts to know them to be feeble. It was a familiar sluggishness, like being doped up on one of Beckett's magical pain-killing concoctions. Except that he could still feel the pain.

Once they had the shirt off, they threw him to the ground, and one of the thugs planted their foot on his back. Being pinned made the removal of the rest of his apparel less of a hassle. He was back in his boxers, twitching with exertion and chill.

" You sons of...! You could have just asked! I'll take my own freakin' clothes off, just quit doing it for me!"

A soldier crouched, grabbing John by the shoulders, but leaning in toward John's head before lifting him up. " The efforts half the fun, Master Sheppard." He pulled John to his feet, and he was hustled back outside to the post and chain.

John smirked. People really needed to be more careful with their word choice. " So you're saying you enjoy ripping my clothes off?"

That earned him a smack to the back of the head. " The struggle, dung-mouth. You don't put up much of a fight. Thought you were a soldier."

" Give me better food and I'll show you a better fight," John retorted.

" You got food. Not our deal if you don't eat."

They locked the collar back around his neck.

He smiled sooner today. John was a creature of quick conditioning. Not so much accepting his current state of being, but more putting up with it until change could be enacted. No point in banging his head against a wall when he'd be the only one getting the concussion. Yes, he was embarrassed as hell, but there was a loophole. Get people to laugh with him instead of at him, act like it was no big deal, and it wouldn't be a big deal. So he leaned with one shoulder against the pole with arms folded and feet crossed, saluting, nodding, or verbalizing greetings for whoever passed close enough by to hear.

" Ladies."

The group of young women walking by giggled.

" Ma'am."

The woman covered her little-girl's eyes and shot John a dagger-sharp glare.

" Gentlemen."

The oldest of the four spit at John's feet. " Suck it, erak bait."

A young couple, busy doing the google-eye deal at eachother, wandered in too close.

" You love-birds should probably get a room," John simpered. That earned him a brain-jarring punch to the face from the young man, one that had him falling to his hands and knees. John just chuckled as he struggled into a sitting position. The world spun, meshing into a kaleidescope of green and brown, flecked with sparking lights. John shook his head clear and nearly fell to his side. The world eventually righted, but there was a lingering sense of dizziness hovering at the edges of his mind, waiting for the slightest movement to make John's surroundings do another drunken spin on the merry-go-round.

He'd been ignoring hunger like it was one of McKay's rants. But also like McKay's rants, it was starting to demand his undivided attention. Even sitting, he shook with it, and his mouth salivated when a slight breeze brought him the scent of baking bread. His stomach was furious.

One more day, maybe two, and he'd be right as rain to down the sludge he was being served. He was fine with that. It wasn't like he was on a hunger strike, just unable to stomach the gray matter hardening in the metal bowl (they'd brought him a new one this morning, despite never even giving him a chance to snub it.) He was actually hoping for the desperation that would have him eating it, then maybe he'd have better strength enough to at least inflict a bloody nose on the goons that enjoyed stripping him.

John gave up on polite greetings, and let his thoughts go to his team. Ronon he wasn't worried about. More than likely, the Cys were giving his little area a wide berth. Teyla, she was tough, but if they had her wearing nothing but under clothes, and some drunken male was feeling a bit 'raunchy', then there could be trouble. More for the male, unless hunger was wearing Teyla down as well.

Rodney would have hated it, but most of John's worry was geared toward him. The humility of being in only underwear would have him launching his mouth off at incredible levels of pissyness – unless the hyperglycemia got to him first. He'd be the weakest of them all, ripe for taunts and physical abuse from rocks being hurled by the neighborhood brats. This wouldn't go down well for him, and it made John tense.

John must have dozed, or drifted off so deep that all reality became non-existent, because the next thing he knew, he jolted back into the real world when the toe of a boot thumped him in the hip.

" Wha...!" He looked up to see Menk standing over him, smiling like an old buddy.

" John. How you holding up?"

Adrenaline shot through John's veins. He grabbed the top of the pole and used it to hoist himself to his feet. He wobbled, but dizziness had only a minor presence now. All energy remaining was called to him to help kindle the fires of anger.

" Where the hell's my team?" he growled. " You can't do this. If Rodney doesn't get enough food, he gets sick..."

Menk placed his hand on John's shoulder.

" John, you really think me so cold? Your friend told me – more than once – of his little condition. It's not unheard of among a scatterin' of our own people. I'm not a cold man like that, John. You suffer on our terms, not nature's."

That was far less reassuring. The oddly sincere kindness in Menk's tone made John want to snap the man's neck.

" Let me see them," John pressed, trying to bore holes into Menk with just his gaze. He shoved Menk's hand from his shoulder. " All of them... one of them, I don't care just let me know if they're all right!"

Menk, king of nonchalance, snapped his fingers. He was handed the key to the collar, and unlocked it. It slid off John's neck to thud on the ground. John rubbed his bruised collarbones and back. The moment he dropped his hand, Menk placed his own paw on the back of John's neck, and began guiding him to the shed.

" They are John, but they'll be no seeing them. Not for a bit. I do have a surprise though that should lift your heart some. Unexpected really, but not somethin' you pass up. I think you might find it a little off, but you need a change, and surprise is always a good change."

A guard opened the door to the shed.

" Surprise," Menk said, and shoved John inside. He stumbled and fell to his knees in the hay. The door slammed close and the lock clunked behind him.

The rise of hay-dust made John cough hard. On sucking in a second breath, he felt a warm hand grip his bicep. Needless to say, it scared the hell out of him, and he jerked his arm away with a cry and snarl of alarm.

" Don't touch me!"

" Sir, sorry sir!"

John froze, then whirled around. The day wasn't quite over, and there was light enough in the shed for him to see that he was no longer alone. The figure stood before the door erect at attention but shifting nervously. But since John's eyes hadn't adjusted to the gloom, he couldn't make out the face.

The voice held some vague familiarity.

" Who's that?" he asked. " Who's there?"

" Oh! Sorry sir. Mathers, sir. Lt. Brian Mathers."

Mathers. John knew that name, and through the name a clearer image of the face popped into his head. A young kid, twenty-something, with dark brown hair and a sharp-featured face.

" Mathers. Part of Stackhouse's team, right?"

" Yes sir."

Menk was right, this was a surprise. John had been expecting more along the lines of someone he knew more personally. Hell, he'd almost expected to find Beckett or Weir what with how weird things already were. Still, a fellow Atlantean was a fellow Atlantean, so John still didn't know what to make of it.

He did know it was definitely not a good sign that another of their's had been captured.

John plopped back against the hay. His eyes had adjusted, and the face in his head became one with the face he was seeing now. Crap, the kid looked no older than Ford.

" Um, sir?" the kid said, and held out John's clothes. " I think these are yours."

John looked at the clothes, then at himself, then back at the clothes. He'd completely forgotten his current state of dress. He reached out and took the apparel.

" Thanks Lieutenant." He slipped his shirt on first. " So, spill it. What brings you to my neck of the hell-hole? Let me guess..." he slipped into his pants, reveling in the relief of not feeling so freakishly exposed in front of a subordinate. " Rescue attempt gone wrong?"

Brian smiled sheepishly. " Exactly, sir. When your team didn't come back two days ago, Weir sent three teams to assess what had happened. We've been officially searching for three days now. Jenkins, Rennolds, and I were combing the woods when I suddenly blacked out. Didn't hear a freakin' thing, sir. There was just this kind of pain in my back then..." he slapped his hand on his thigh, " Bam! I'm down. I, uh, woke up here."

John tugged on his boots. " Back still hurt?"

" Only a little, sir."

John nodded, yanking the bootlaces tight. " Just move around, it'll go away."

" Permission to ask what happened?"

This kid was by the book. John hated that. " Look, first off, loosen up about the protocol. I know it's important, but I'm really not in the mood. You can keep calling me sir if it makes you feel better, just don't keep asking my permission. Leniency is a must if I'm to keep my sanity. Second of all, sit down, take a breather. You're going to be here a while. Now, what happened. Let me tell you what happened. We got screwed, that's what happened." John finished tying off his boot, then pointed a finger at the young Lieutenant now sitting Indian style before the door. " Never trust these freakin' farmer types! One minute they're all Little House on the Prairie, the next they're asking you to build them a nuke in a secret bunker or shooting you with weapons that make a wraith stunner look like a slingshot. And _never_ say yes to a drink unless it's offered by someone from your own planet. Actually, you know what? Just never say yes to a drink."

Mathers squinted. " O – Kay?"

John sighed, then dropped back against the hay when his body felt too heavy to hold itself up. Hay dust puffed up in a small, swiftly dissipating cloud. " We were ambushed, stunned, dragged here, and separated. The Cyladrans – our _lovely hosts_ – hate us because we got Atlantis and they didn't. So, we're being punished. And that's what happened. Is – is happening."

The shed went quiet.

" You all right, sir?"

John let out a weary breath. " Yeah... just a little hungry. Food looks hazardous to the health."

" Yeah, I saw sir."

John snorted out a chuckle. " Try tasting it. Makes you long for a bowl of sewage."

" I'll pass, sir."

John closed his eyes. Even lying down, with arms splayed to either side, John's hands still shook. " So, Mathers, in terms of Earth, where to you hail from?"

" Well, originally, I was born in Rhode Island, but my family was military so we moved around a lot."

John's mouth quirked up in a smile. " I sympathize with you. Where were you stationed before here?"

" I was part of a team back at the SGC, but it was kind of short lived when they called people to take up the Atlantis gig."

John opened his eyes at this. Even the greens had more experience than him in off-world matters. And here he'd thought joining the Atlantis expedition was 'no experience necessary'. Maybe for him – he had the gene. It always made him ponder who got the boot to make room for him, but chances were there had always been room for one more.

John's jaw twitched. _Room for one more_. Wasn't that some ghost story? Room for one more in the hearse, room for one more in the elevator to hell, killing everyone on board say for the guy who didn't listen to room for one more.

Except John wasn't dead – yet. Close, but no dice. Or maybe he was the one driving the hearse, working the elevator. He _was_ the team leader.

John reclosed his eyes. He was gearing toward the negative.

 _Positive, positive, stay positive. Just because people die around you doesn't make you any kind of bad luck._ He ended on that train of thought before it could go any further. He could never let himself go down that road, because he would never come back from it if he did.

 _He was the one who was supposed to die._

He felt unwavering pity for Mathers. Of all the team members to get stuck with...

 _Positive! Everyone suffers the bad, and everyone takes the blame. You're no more special in that department than Teyla, Ronon, McKay, hell even Mathers. You can't save everyone._

 _The hell I can't._

 _You can try. But you can't._

John sighed heavily, lifting his shaking hands to rub his aching face. What was the saying? You know you're going crazy when you're answering yourself – or maybe that was answering yourself out loud. No one ever got funny looks for mental debates.

" Sir?" Mathers said.

" Yeah?"

" Any idea what's going to happen to us?"

John dropped his hands back onto the hay, and softly laughed. " Public humiliation." He then lifted his head enough to look at Mathers. The kid appeared confused, even more so than when Menk dropped John half naked in the shed.

" Just," John began, " try to stay positive. At least it's not a public beating."

TBC...


	5. And we all Fall Down

_The road grew wilder and drearier, and more faintly traced, and vanished at length, leaving him in the heart of the dark wilderness, still rushing onward, with the instinct that guides mortal man to evil._

 _Young Goodman Brown by Hawthorne_

Day four, and John found the positive in that he had someone in which to share his sufferings. Of course, seeing as he had developed a mental callous against this particular embarrassment, he considered it more of an annoyance than a torment. Poor Mathers, on the other hand, was going to pass out from all the excess blood rosying up his face.

An extra helping of soldiers had come in at dawn to commence the strip to the boxers. At John's instruction, neither Atlantean put up a fight since – as confirmed the other day – the pleasure was in the struggle; demonstrating the captive as weak and the captors as strong, which wasn't far from the truth since John didn't have the energy to bat the battering hands away.

They were chained by the neck to the same pole, and took up positions on either side. John was sitting, but not by choice. Hunger was pounding on him, and if he didn't sit then he had to suffer the world pin-wheeling around him. Mathers sat with knees drawn up and back hunched. The kid glared venomously at every look shot his way, even the ones from girls that looked to be his age.

" Positive, Mathers. I think that one young lady might have been flirting with you." John smiled and did a small wave to the girl with the red hair and wearing a sky-blue dress. She didn't even notice, her eyes lingering fixedly on the lean Brian Mathers.

" No offense, sir, but I find nothing positive about being some alien chick's _eye-candy_."

John lifted his hand to swat a sweat-sucker trying to make its way into his ear. His hand shook so bad it didn't even land on the bug. He clenched his fist, dropping it to his side, and still it shook.

" I know it's tough, Mathers, but you can't let these people get to you. Act like you don't care - and they don't care. You become less eye-candy, and more the century old statue that's been around for too long to show any interest in... or something like that. Can't really think straight enough for a better analogy. At any rate – you need to try and act like it's no big deal."

Mathers nodded, but did nothing to unfold himself from his huddle. " I understand sir. It's just..." He tightened his embrace around his knees and shivered. " I've... kind of got this self-conscious streak. It's not really shame about myself or anything, I've just never liked a lot of attention... Especially in this kind of way. When I was a kid, and my family and I would go to the beach, I'd always wear a T-shirt with my trunks. I just... I hate feeling exposed... _being_ exposed..."

John nodded in understanding. " Yeah, I know what you mean. It makes you feel... more vulnerable than you've ever felt in your life."

" Like being unarmed," Mathers added, " when you're surrounded by wraith." He then rolled his head to the side to look at John. " How do you handle it, sir? How do you keep it from bothering you?"

John shrugged. " Because, right now, we don't have much of a choice. Besides, it doesn't last forever. People can laugh, can smirk, whatever. Doesn't change who you are. Doesn't make you more or less of anything. Hell, if anything, it makes you better, because you learn how to put up with it. You learn that – after all is said and done – you survived, you can move on. And anything else embarrassing that comes along you can toss aside like yesterday's trash since you've been through worse. You learn that it really doesn't matter, no matter how much people laugh."

Mathers sighed. " That easy?"

" Hell no. It takes practice, long years of practice. For me, it was kind of forced. I've had worse humiliations than this. I've had worse experiences. This..." John lifted his arm to encompass their surroundings in a single sweep, " is nothing... so far. I won't lie, this may not be it, being humiliated I mean. They could have more in store for us."

They fell silent enough to hear snickers and whispers of passer-bys. John rested his chin on his upturned knees. A black mark was definitely worse than this. Losing people – beyond worse to a word he didn't have to describe it. Humiliation was a dot in the universe of his existence.

Day five – John was desperate. Or at least he thought he was. He could barely stand, and his lack of struggle against the soldiers had nothing to do with choice. After their next ordeal of near-nudity, John took twenty minutes just to get dressed. It was then that Mathers urged him to try and swallow some of the swill.

" Come on sir. You'll need your strength to help me when I have to drink this crap." It was meant as a joke, but the underlining truth kept either from laughing.

It was a shared sentiment that weakness was one of those humiliations that topped being seen in one's under-shorts. It was also dangerous with the possibility of further torment neither could – or wanted to – imagine looming in the near future. So, with Mathers' help, John took the bowl and lifted it to his mouth. The first sip, he gagged. The second, he spat. The third – more like three quick gulps – left him coughing and and nearly puking it back up.

" Damn it! I'd rather eat a bowl of freakin' shhhh – shaving cream, be nice and clean, shave once a day and you're always be keen!"

John dropped back onto his personal pile of hay. Delirium – lovely and inevitable. But reciting stupid ditties seemed to work as a distraction from the bitter slime coating his tongue and throat.

Mathers attempted to down some of the swill, and only managed a swallow.

" Dang! I'd rather it a bowl of peas than this crap!" he gasped, scooting back to his hay pile provided from Sheppard's now smaller pile.

" Hate peas I take it?" John panted, swallowing continually to keep the stuff in his gut.

" Not anymore."

Day six – more of the same, and the swallow of sour porridge John had managed wasn't helping. Mathers was starting to show signs of malnutrition in that his hands kept shaking. Time was passed – inside and outside – with small talk. Places they've been, things they've seen, people they liked/disliked on Atlantis. Kavenaugh was a universal dislike. Ronon made Mathers nervous, Rodney – sleepy.

" Sleepy?"

Mathers shrugged abashedly. " That's the only way I can describe it. I guess because he knows so much, and he's always busy, all over the place. Plus he talks a lot. I'm not good with long attention spans, sir."

John laughed, nearing on hysterics with the way his mind teetered in and out of reality.

" Dr. Beckett's fun," Brian said.

John, his head resting against the pole, rolled it to face Mathers, quirking an eyebrow. " Fun? The doc? Mr. happy go lucky with the needles to your arm?"

Mathers snickered. " Yeah. He's actually an okay guy outside the infirmary. Tells great jokes, especially with that accent. The guy's gold. And he knows how to put up with everyone."

John grinned. " He's had a lot of practice with the worst of the worst."

" You mean you, sir?"

John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. " Maybe."

Brian arched his back in a stretch until it popped. " I've seen the sign."

John jerked his wobbling head up at this. " What sign?"

Mathers blinked in surprise. " You haven't seen...? Ah crap. It's... um... it's... It kind of started out as a joke, then people started taking it seriously. It's just a ' Colonel is in/Colonel is out', so we know when it's cool to come in and see the doc. Usually – if you're in – he's, you know, kind of – okay, _really_ busy. He normally won't deal with anyone else, especially if it's something minor. Plus, it's never a pretty sight seeing your CO messed up after some conflict... you know?" Brian winced on the last part.

John let out a huff of breath that jerked his chest. " Yeah, I know."

Sumner still wandered the halls of John's darker nightmares.

Day seven - and all was the same say for an increase of weakness in both Atlanteans' limbs. They took up singing more stupid ditties, just to offend the locals – though the Atlantean swears had little affect in laying on the offense. He taught Mathers the shaving cream song, and dredged up new verses.

" Holed up in some tiny little barn, with not many places to sit, you roll in the dirt long enough, you smell like a big pile of shaving cream...!" Mathers howled. Passer-bys gasped.

John snickered. " Good one. Not exactly like the song, but good."

Day eight - and both were urging the other to take more than three swallows of the swill. It was hell, but it did help to clear the mist settling heavily over their consciousness.

" One more swallow, sir," Mathers urged. John couldn't see the kid's dirty face in the dim light, only his shadowed form. John forced another stream of the filth down his burning throat, then handed the bowl to Brian and took up the sideline cheer-leading.

Water was the more hassle, since they only had one cup between them. They took mental inventory of their sips, and managed to find a pattern that enabled them to keep it lasting until the evening.

So went the routine on into day nine, ten, eleven, and then Sheppard lost count. Nothing had changed. Menk dropped by now and then, refusing to let John see his team, and forever assuring that they were fine.

 _And how the hell can they be fine if they're wasting away like us?_ But John wasn't in the right state of mind to study Menk over for signs of deceit. Of course, even when he had been in the right state of mind, he still couldn't tell.

Menk never had anything more done to the two than what was already being done.

" Sir?" Mathers croaked.

John let his head loll against the pole to look at the kid. Mather's was dirt-caked, bruised, and declining physically toward bony. John could only imagine himself looking just as bad or worse.

" Yeah?"

" I don't care about being in my underwear anymore," he said.

John furrowed his brow. " Okay."

Mathers continued. " I think... the people not looking at us anymore... I don't like that. It's worse, somehow. Way worse, like something's wrong."

John flicked his eyes to the passer-bys. Brian was right, no one was looking at them. Their faces were turned, up or down, or just away. And they walked faster as well.

John didn't miss the discomfort, the disgust. He started laughing, softly at first, then rising as his strength would allow.

" We must really look bad."

Mathers didn't hear. He'd passed out.

SGASGASGASGA

" Master Sheppard."

His name was hissed in his ear, crawling down his spine, making him writhe from the discomfort of it. John peeled his eye lids apart then rolled onto his bare back to stare up at the bearded, grime-smeared face of Culs. John grimaced at the putrid breath being puffed in his face.

" What the hell do you want?"

Culs lifted his head to glance over his shoulder. When he turned back to Sheppard, he grabbed him by his skinny shoulders and lifted him into sitting position. Even gentle the man's grip could crush bone to fine powder.

 _Powder. Baking powder rinse would clear up that mouth-stink._ John was truly, indescribably, delirious.

" No time for words, Master Sheppard." He grabbed Sheppard's clothes from the corner where John had shoved them, refusing to spend any energy on dressing, even if it was warmer. The big man thrust the clothes into John's arms, then took him by both biceps and lifted him to his feet. With a massive pat to the shoulder that almost knocked John back to the floor, he turned to the semi-conscious Mathers and repeated the waking process.

" Culs, what...?"

Culs sucked air between his teeth. " Clamp yer jaws, Master Sheppard. Ya wish to be gettin'? Then slap yer tongue."

John arched and eyebrow. " How do you slap your own tongue?"

Once Mathers was on his feet, Culs turned his massive bulk toward the door and slowly pulled it open. A quick glance, and he signaled with a wave of his hand for John and Brian to follow.

" Culs!" John hissed. " What are you doing?"

Culs looked back at John and grinned. " I like ya, John. I've told you that. No sense in lettin' a man of yer manners go to waste. I hate seein' it, I really do. I'd thought Menk would be done by now. But, - heh - bury me, Menk never was one to know when quittin' time came. Now be quick and light footed. We've got ways to go."

Culs slipped into the waning darkness that was fading toward morning.

John hesitated. It felt wrong, so wrong his chest went tight as though someone had strapped a rope around it and pulled. Cold turned his innards into blocks of ice, his blood to rivers of glaciers, weighing him down so that his legs wouldn't move. Strangely enough, klaxons like the alarms of Atlantis during an unscheduled activation blared in his skull.

" John!" Culs hissed.

" Sir?"

John jerked his head in Mathers' direction. The kid was uncertain, and scared to hell, his eyes wide and his body shaking. But he wasn't petrified, and he wasn't going to move until his CO made a decision.

The ice in John shattered, and his legs recovered mobility. No time for uncertainties with two lives on the line. He stepped out into the frosting morning twilight that had their breath misting up to the indigo sky. Culs led the way past two unconscious guards, out of the village and into the woods. It was hard to keep up with the long strides of healthy, strong legs when John's own legs felt devoid of bone and nerves. He stumbled, with Mathers helping him up, then him helping Mathers up.

" Culs... my team?" John panted, catching himself on a tree before he fell again. The going might have been easier if he discarded his clothes, but he was cold, and looked forward to putting them on again.

" Waitin' to meet ya, Master Sheppard," Culs replied.

John didn't feel the wondrous onrush of relief. The warnings were banshee shrieks in his brain, pounding on his skull to the rhythm of his heart. But he was too weak to argue, question, or even think. If he stopped, he'd never move again. Momentum both pushed and pulled him along, and to lose it now would be to drop and die.

But it was wrong, all wrong. He couldn't place it or prove it, he just felt it; spidey-senses, pre-cog, a voice from on high, or still and small – it was the only coherent thought he could form.

He just couldn't find the way to listen. Stop now and die, or go back and die. Rocks and hard places had nothing on his predicament.

They crashed through the underbrush as above the sky began to burn with the gold of dawn. Both John and Brian were wheezing, lurching from tree to tree. Culs moved on ahead, farther and farther.

" Culs..." John gasped, flanks heaving and slick with sweat. " Culs... wait! We can't... we can't keep going like this. We need to rest!"

" No time," Culs called back, casually, indifferently. John looked over at Mathers, now several feet away, but the kid was oblivious to all else say for the subconscious need to keep moving. Sweat had left pale tracks through the grime coating his thinned-out skin. Mathers didn't sense it, hear it - the warnings. He had no idea what was going on, only that his CO was moving, so he needed to move with him.

But John had stopped. He hadn't realized it, and only now realized it because Mathers was moving away.

" Mathers?" John called. " Lieutenant!"

The kid stumbled to a stop, and turned on wavering legs to face Sheppard.

" Sir?"

A high-pitched whistle echoed through the woods. It stabbed into John's ears, and sent ice shooting through his already frozen body.

" Oh hell no Mathers _run_!"

Brian stiffened, and that was as far as he went when a massive, hairless brown body smacked into Brian, knocking him down. Screams tore the air, sent a cloud of colorful birds exploding into the sky, and drove Sheppard to his knees in horror.

" Nooooo!" he screamed, but it was overshadowed by the shriek of agony, the snarl of the beast, and the sound of flesh being ripped.

John crawled toward the sounds. He had no intent, no plan, just the single-minded will to move, to reach Mathers.

Something hard and jagged pressed down on his back to pin him to the ground, and he was halted.

" Not yet, John."

John didn't look up. Menk's voice was familiar enough to place a face to the foot. When the screams died in a gurgle and cough, another whistle shattered the air, and the erak bounded off back into the woods.

Everything went dead silent. Menk's foot lifted from John's back.

" Now John. Now you can go."

John gathered his strength, but his strength wasn't happy to oblige. He clawed the dirt, dragged his numb body through soil and muck, keeping his eyes fixed to the curled and bloody hand clawing the air, and his ears to the liquid inhalations.

" Hold on kid," John whimpered. Had he anything in his stomach, he would have puked.

" Best hurry, John," said Menk, walking along side as though taking a leisurely stroll. " The boy won't last much longer. I can see the blood from here. Poolin' fast, and it's unpretty to see."

John gritted his teeth, seething with saliva and flecks of foam flying and dripping from his mouth.

" Help him you son of a...!" he snarled, ending with a cough forced from sore lungs. He was close now, closer, he could smell the blood, taste it metallic in the air, hear the rasps that made John want to vomit. " Hang on Lieutenant. That's an order! You hang on!"

John reached out and felt something warm and wet. But he dug his fingers into the soft dirt anyways and pulled himself that last foot, his chest landing in the heated red pool.

Brian's arm fell with a thump to the ground. The gurgling stopped, and his eyes stared emptily at the sky.

John froze. " Lieutenant?" He reached out with a hand that wouldn't stay steady. Blood slid from the corner of the kid's mouth, and ran like a waterfall from the gaping split in his chest down the runnels between his protruding ribcage. John's hand landed on the kid's neck, and felt nothing.

John gagged on bile.

" Oh... bit late then, John?"

The sharp prod of a toe in his ribs was little more than an insect buzz to John. He was numb, utterly and completely, from head to toe. He couldn't even feel his own heart. The next step was supposed to be him waking up with a gasp and lying in a puddle of cold sweat. Then Mathers would ask if he was all right and John would say yeah and... Or, even better, John was in a bed, a soft bed surrounded by the familiarity of personal quarters, and someone would be pounding on his door, snapping in the petulant voice of McKay to get his scrawny carcass up. Yeah, that was the way, that was what was supposed to happen.

" I see why you lost the city, John," Menk said. " But to lose this boy? He was right in front of you John." A vicious kick to the ribs, and John didn't feel it. " Feet away. The erak could have missed," another kick, " if you'd just," another, " kept your mouth," another " shut!" Another and another. It forced the air from John's lungs, and kept it from returning for several, agonizingly eternal, seconds.

" See the hurt you've caused? See what comes from takin' what's never yours? You brought this on yourself, John." Another kick, the hardest of all, as though the rest were just warm-ups. Something cracked, John both felt it and heard it. He didn't scream, just let his eyes tear up.

Menk's words were mumbled gibberish. Except the part about Mathers. John had been warned – spidey senses and all - but apparently he didn't know how to listen.

With a shaking hand gloved in dirt and blood, John reached out and closed Mathers' eyes.

SGASGASGASGA

The smooth wood of the trunk dug into John's knobby spine, but he didn't have energy enough to stay sitting straight. He was conserving it, the last few drops, pooling it together so that he could walk to the gate – fifteen feet away from him – on his own two feet.

He'd had his crawl. Not much left in his store of dignity, but at least he could pretend.

The sun felt refreshingly warm on his skin protected by the film of filth covering it – natures slow-applying sunblock. But he still couldn't stop shivering.

In one arm he held his clothes against his blood-stained chest. The other arm he had draped over one knee, tapping his IDC against his shin. Menk had warned John that the moment he tried to dress before crossing the gate was the moment he got a bullet to the brain. Supposedly, there were snipers in the woods.

And yet it still wasn't incentive enough to hurry through the gate. Neither was the prospect of seeing his team, who'd been released some time before Sheppard, if John was supposed to believe it.

Menk was wrong in every aspect. John wasn't big on the destiny gig, but to have a city come to life the second one set foot in it was like having a house hand over its own keys on its own power. Every light, every console, every hum of machinery that responded to John's presence like a dog to its master's whistle was speaking the words 'I'm yours, all yours, only yours.' If that wasn't destiny, then destiny didn't exist. Not even human beings were that open-armed.

Atlantis was, by every right of John's ancestry and the ancestry of all those carrying the gene, the Atlantean's – the Earthling's. Menk could rant all he wanted, but his words had the effect of water on an oiled surface, sliding off into oblivion.

John held no qualms about claiming Atlantis. Everything that Menk had said had never really mattered from the start.

John curled his toes into the soft, dark soil, digging gouges, then tiny pits. It was cool, and held that pleasant earthy smell, like what the world smells like after it rains.

Menk hadn't let John take Mathers' body. Funny how any other time there wouldn't even be a body to bring back. John didn't want to go back without Mathers, but ran the risk of being shot for lolly-gagging.

Strangely enough, even to him, he didn't care if he got shot. Had he his gun, he would have gladly sent a few rounds into the forest, happy enough to wing a Cy before gun-fire was returned. The Cys must have anticipated this, because John was weaponless right down to his knife. Vulnerable to the third degree. But like he cared. Maintaining the self was never much of a focus of his. The other guy mattered, but the other guy was dead, and John didn't know what to do. Get up, dial, go through the gate; simple, but wrong. He was alone. He wasn't supposed to go through alone. He never went through alone. There was always someone there, many, few, or one – hurt, awake, even dragging John's useless carcass along.

He was supposed to come back with someone. The lack of another presence was like having forgotten something, not knowing what it was, but not leaving until it was found. It tethered John to the spot, having him dig holes in the dirt with his toes, wavering on the edge of passing out. He was so hungry he could have eaten the grass and been satisfied.

But to go back without someone... John twitched his misty head. Confusion was now the dominant state of mind. He knew, like a remembered piece of advice, that going through the gate was the only course of action. He had to go alone, no choice in the matter now.

And he was so hungry.

John braced his back against the tree and used it as leverage to struggle to his feet. Once up, he pushed off from the trunk and stumbled forward. He kept stumbling all the way to the DHD, then leaned in close to the blurred symbols, methodically punching them in. No alpha sight, just straight to Atlantis. The gate roared and rushed to life, foaming like a breaker. He punched in his code, then dug the radio from his clothes that the Cys had so kindly returned, and pressed it to his ear.

" ...olnel Sheppard? Is that you?"

Weir's voice. John couldn't even form a feeling of relief on hearing her voice. All feeling had been post-poned.

" Yeah, yeah it's me."

" Colonel? Are you all right?"

Leaning on the DHD, John closed his eyes. " No, not really."

" The shield's down. It's safe to come through."

John pushed off the DHD and lurched to the gate. He stepped into the shimmering pool, suffered the Mr Toad's Wild Ride ride through the cosmos, and stepped out the other side.

No dignity left to lose, but even if he had, John didn't have the means to even blush. The room was thick with stunned silence, every eye wide, and a few mouths gaping to the floor.

John's ribs dug into the arm holding his clothes, sharp as dulled blades when he took a breath. He glanced around, blinking slowly. He was so freakin' tired he didn't even know what he was supposed to be feeling had he been able to feel at all. Truthfully, he had no desire to feel anything. He knew he wouldn't like what that feeling was when it finally clawed its way through the muck in his head.

It took yet another lurch to get him moving. Taking the stairs was going to be hell. But he took them, one foot at a time. He met Elizabeth at the top, but didn't even acknowledge the reality of her presence. Not yet, not time to talk yet. He didn't even register her expression.

" John?"

Not yet. John dropped his IDC so he could reach out to the wall for support. Cool hands tried to wrap around his arm, and the sensation triggered a bout of queasiness. His involuntary response was to jerk away, pressing into the wall. Another attempt, this time on his shoulder, and he jerked again.

He cringed, sliding along the wall. " Don't... Touch me!" He moved faster, which made the hall tilt and the lights dim. He collided with a body that had him taking two steps back, then two more when yet another hand planted itself on his chest in the action of halting him.

" Colonel?"

John looked up into McKay's bruised face, then flicked down at the sling cradling a bound arm. He stared at it wistfully when he heard his name. He looked up and to the right at Teyla, her lip cut and her wrist bound in a splint. Behind her was Ronon – relatively unscathed, say for a few missing dreads.

But, hey, they were alive. He was supposed to feel relief, joy, even slight annoyance that his team had been injured; that much he knew or at least recalled from past experience. He couldn't even force the emotions on himself.

What he did feel was eyes, countless eyes, touching him like hands, digging beneath the skin to see what was underneath. It made him just as queasy as actual touch, and he began to shake from more than just deteriorating limbs. Not even a circle of wraiths would have him feeling this trapped. His eyes flicked to the shocked faces of Dr. Weir, Major Lorne, Rodney, Teyla – even Ronon looked uncertain.

John's clothes fell from his nerveless hand, and his shoulders hunched in another cringe. Why now? He'd been stared at for numberless days. Why was it bringing him down now?

He couldn't move fast enough, not without falling. He slipped passed Rodney by pressing closer to the wall. The others were following, something John knew by feel, because what else were they going to do? He was acting like a freak, and he knew it.

Screw it, he didn't care. He didn't have the strength to. He needed every last ounce of it to keep his legs moving and carry him to the one place that he would end up in anyways, even if he locked himself in his own quarters just to shut out the stares.

John was hugging the wall now. Each step made his legs quake, and his breath caused his side to flare up as though someone were jabbing him with hot pokers. Time – cruel SOB that it was – lengthened the corridors, turning minutes to hours, and prolonging the agony of movement and a gnawing, empty stomach.

But all roads lead somewhere, and he came to the infirmary with a suddeness that startled him.

His startlement was nothing compared to Beckett's. The Scottish doctor didn't even have time for a yelp of alarm when John stumbled into the infirmary with no wall for support. Carson had to drop his clipboard in order to catch the wasted body before it violently embraced the hard floor.

" Oh bloody freakin' hell! What..." He had John beneath the armpits, and struggled to lift him up back onto feet that had finally rebelled and quit. John gripped the shoulder's of Carson's lab coat in the same vain attempt. He looked up at the doctor's wide-eyed face, and gripped his shoulders tight.

" H-Hey doc?" Gazes burned his back, drilled holes into his skull. He just wanted it to stop, and sleep unexposed. " I-I'm... really tired."

Carson's features softened. " Aye... I can see that lad."

TBC...


	6. Of Scriveners

John was the model patient, and it made Carson wonder what it took to freeze a place like hell. Reactions to having the stethoscope placed to his chest and back, prodding of his protruding ribs and spine, blood drawn from his arm, and X-rays were limited to flinches and the occasional cringe.

John was a mute the entire time, and dazed to the point that he could have been mistaken for an open-eyed coma patient – even with him sitting up – or an honest to goodness zombie. He was white enough, and officially bony enough, to pass as one. But the poor man was clinging to his last thread of reality, and Carson was forced more than once to catch the Colonel before he toppled from the bed.

John was shivering bad.

" You cold, lad?" Carson asked, wiping away the dirt and grime with a cloth from John's arms and chest to asses the cuts and bruises. John nodded his head on his limp neck.

" We'll have you wearin' warm scrubs soon enough, just as soon as we finish here. I'd really liked to have you cleaned before we bind those ribs. I can't tell bruise from dirt..."

John pitched forward, and Carson caught him. He eased the Colonel into a prone position on the bed, then lifted his legs to join with the rest of his body. The Colonel was out, officially and inexorably. With him out, it was easier to finish cleaning him off, especially with two more nurses joining the effort. Earlier attempts at getting the nurses to assist had John nearly slipping from the bed trying to get away from so many hands.

After an hour, days worth of filth was gone, and bruises stood out blindingly brilliant against the colorless skin. They wrapped his chest and swabbed disinfecting ointments on the smaller cuts. Carson placed a sheet over John's waist before removing the filthy boxers. Not that he didn't trust the nurses to have some consideration for the malnourished man. The final act of bringing John into complete nudity felt like an affront to the Colonel, and deplorable to Carson. John had been on display long enough, and dignity needed to be scrounged for him seeing as how he wasn't in a right fit state to do it himself.

" I swear," Carson growled, holding John's upper body up as the nurse – Kaylee – slipped a scrub shirt over his head. " If I hear one bloody joke about John wearin' boxers or briefs and what color they are I'm issuin' an early mandatory vaccination and givin' 'em the big needles. Turn your head lass."

Kaylee did so while Carson handled placing on the pants. He then pulled the blankets up to John's chest.

" Or I'll let Ronon do the administerin'."

Kaylee slid the I.V. needle into John's hand and taped it. " Anyone who thinks this is funny is sick." She slipped the wires of the monitor through the collar of the shirt.

Carson liked that about Kaylee. The woman was blunt, forward. A woman all business when on duty, and at the top of Carson's list in who to trust not to 'peek' at comatose patients. At only twenty-eight, she had the maturity of a woman of sixty straight out of the nineteenth century.

" Aye, but the sick ones do exist. It took a twisted mind to do this to John. Vicious, twisted mind. Could you go check on the blood work lass, see if any foreign bodies are present?"

Kaylee nodded and left.

There wasn't much left to do. John was clean, comfortable, and monitored, so anything else Carson did would be busy work and an excuse to stick around. Not that he wouldn't be going far to tend to other matters, but he was hesitant. John wasn't exactly sedated, just out by his own power – or lack thereof – and Carson didn't want to go far should John's waking include some sort of night-terror born fit.

Carson placed his hand on John's shoulder and felt the bones. It never took much – or long – for John to go emaciated.

 _Least favorite physical state for John. He's gonna be a mite furious when he awakes._ But just as quickly as he went rag doll of bone and stretched skin, John reestablished his former frame within weeks, sometimes days, through extra meals and exercise.

Carson wasn't worried. John would be all right. The man fought infirmity like it was a wraith trying to suck him dry.

Carson moved his hand to John's forehead; one more casual test of temperature before pulling himself away from the bedside.

John inhaled a deep breath as far as the chest bandage would allow. His hand moved methodically like a limb through water, and gripped Carson's wrist flaccidly.

" Doc?" John's voice was low, barely above a whisper, and hoarse.

Carson smiled. " Happy to see ya still in the land of the livin', son. How ya feelin'?"

John swallowed. Chances were, he was thirsty, since dehydration was another little attribute John had suffered through. Carson made to move to the table to grab a cup and straw. John's grip tightened, shaking with the strain of it.

" Doc?" The urgency behind that word sounded almost painful. Carson crouched to hear better, wiping the smile from his own face.

" Yeah, lad. I'm hear. What ya be needin'?"

John let his grip loosen enough to stop the shaking. " What..." he cleared his throat, " what happened to them?"

Carson squinted. " Huh? To who, John?"

John winced on rolling himself onto his uninjured side. " Teyla, Rodney, Ronon. What... How did they... What happened to them?"

Carson heard the whispered rush of the infirmary doors and looked up to see Weir enter with purpose, but slow her approach on seeing Carson's position. Carson looked back at John.

The hard, unwavering, penetrable stare could have knocked Carson flat on his butt. Weak in body but never weak in mind, John was not going to settle for anything less than the truth.

But John wasn't going to like the truth.

" Your captors," Carson said, albeit reluctantly. " Need I say more?"

John's face pinched with confusion. " T-they said they'd be waiting. M-Menk said... they'd be waiting..." he then chuckled, quietly and caustically. " Never said how though. When they get back?"

" About a week before you. You've been gone two. Their state wasn't quite up to yours, but they were in a bad way. Rodney especially with his hyperglycemia. He was barely conscious. They were beaten... for the most... then, they were escorted back to the gate and forced through. They were threatened... If they came back, they'd be shot. We were hard pressed to keep 'em from goin' back for ya, and it ain't a party keepin' Ronon on a leash."

John grimaced, and pain flitted over his features. Carson placed his hand on his arm.

" John?"

John shook his head. " Bad choice of words, doc. That's all." He rolled onto his back. He released Carson to rub his face one-handed. " They released them." John made it sound ironic. He dropped his hand to his side, and his head lolled. Carson shook his arm.

" Come on, lad, stay with me. We need to know what happened to ya."

John blinked several times, then squinted. " Who else on Stackhouse's team... came back?"

Carson stiffened, looking up at Weir. Wide-eyed, she shook her head in alarm.

" How'd you know about...?"

" Who else!"

" Three went missin'," Carson blurted, shifting uneasily. He'd talked thinking it would keep John from becoming agitated.

So much for good intentions.

" Two came back with your team in not too pleasant condition," he finished. " How'd you know about Stackhouse's team?"

John didn't answer. He stared up at the ceiling, his throat working down a tight swallow, and the muscles of his jaw twitching. John could have blinked his eye-balls out of existence, it didn't stop the shimmer of water pooling on the edge of his eyelids.

Elizabeth closed the distance between her and John's bed with slow steps. She placed her hand on his shoulder and gently rubbed.

" What's happened John?"

John slid his eyes closed. " I had a chance to save him..." he choked out a cough, " and I couldn't."

" Him who John?" Weir pressed. It was pointless, John was asleep.

SGASGASGASGA

John became aware of someone saying his name, and opened his bleary eyes to a fuzzed face hovering over him. Blinking, the fuzz congealed into the bruise-mottled visage of Rodney.

" Sleeping Beauty you're not, Colonel, so wake up already. It's breakfast time." Rodney pulled a tray in close to the bed and picked up a mug with a straw. " Here, drink up. It's this or a feeding tube. Beckett's promise, and you know how wicked his promises can be."

John looked at the mug with steam snaking from it. It smelled – indescribably awesome. Broth, nothing more than beef broth by the scent, and it made John's mouth flood with saliva. He reached for the mug with a hand that quaked hard enough to snap his own wrist. Rodney snatched the mug back.

" Whoa, easy, slow down, you'll get it all over and, frankly, I've got better things to do than let Beckett treat me for burns."

" Rodney!" John's voice rasped out an amount of desperation that momentarily floored even himself, but he never took his eyes from that mug – his cup of steaming salvation.

He was beyond hungry if there was such a thing as beyond hungry, and it hurt. He just wanted it to stop.

None of this was lost on Rodney, who was struck speechless for a whole minute.

" Ah, oh, crap, sorry. I'll – uh – I'll just help you hold it and..."

When the mug was near enough, John lunged, grabbing it with both hands, and it slopped all the same onto the blanket. Rodney kept hold of the handle as John, disregarding the straw, inhaled the scalding soup that burned his tongue and seared his throat. He loved it. He reveled in the heat radiating from his esophagus to go raging like a wild fire through his chest. He savored the pain of being burned, and the way it shoved exhaustion aside like the big bad dog baring down on the yappy little mutt.

The pinnacle was the heat hitting his stomach, filling the cold pit of starvation that had rendered the organ a shriveled sack of useless tissue. He swore the stomach acid was leaping in delight. He drank without taking a breath.

" Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey! Slow down, Carson said not all at once. Hey!" Rodney was tugging the mug from John's hand. John clung to it like a life preserver. He was done when the last drop was sliding down his parched, seared throat.

When John finally relinquished the mug, Rodney looked into it with a scowl, then tipped it upside down for effect.

" Great. Now Carson's going to murder us both."

John was far beyond even remotely caring. He dropped back against the pillows, panting and wiping broth from his mouth. He couldn't feel parts of his tongue, and it felt great. Every nerve, every bone, felt soaked with warmth, and his hand wasn't shaking so bad.

Rodney set the mug back on the tray. " For someone as scrawny as you, you're unnervingly strong when you want to be."

" You mean to tell me you weren't licking up every scrap of food the moment you got back to Atlantis?" John breathed.

Rodney shrugged, feigning innocence. " I may have..." he cleared his throat, " made off with a few extra muffins when people weren't looking. Cut in line, got myself an early ticket out of the infirmary with one too many meal requests. But you of all people can _not_ get after me for it. You had the swill. You know that stuff couldn't keep a fly alive." He snorted a short laugh. " I bet they use it to ward off insects when they're not torturing people."

John studied McKay's bruises, the dominant of the collection being around his eye, the second on his jaw.

" You okay, McKay?"

Rodney stared at John incredulously for two seconds, then rolled his eyes. " And here it is. The million dollar question. You are as predictable as the tides, you know that Colonel? Well, not the Atlantis tide since we haven't been studying them all that much... But who cares. You're like loaded dice, landing in the same state of mind, going for the same questions. Of course I'm all right. What's a little torture between enemies, huh? Wouldn't expect anything less, would you?"

John let out a shuddering breath. " I didn't know what to expect."

Rodney arched his head back. " What! Oh come on. It was all torture no matter how it was dished out. They bent my nose, broke my arm, starved you, broke your ribs... They were pissy little juveniles whining over finders keepers. They beat us up and ran off. Even a five year old could have figured out they were venting some rage. So what was there extra that kept your expectations out of the loop, huh?"

John recalled the screams, the blood, and stated softly, " They're dangerous McKay."

" Dangerous! Sheppard, they're bullies. I mean they sent you through the gate in your underwear. That is like so... eigth grade, minus someone taking a picture..."

John met Rodney's gaze and held it. " They're worse than the Genii."

Rodney balked at that, as though John had just spewed out a string of the worst offenses imaginable. " What! No way! The Cyladrans are no where near Genii level..." Rodney stuttered to a stop, and wrinkled his brow. Something had finally clicked into place in that ever active brain, and it manifested as a metamorphoses in Rodney's expression. A Rodney epiphany could never be contained. Not even his emotions were so blatantly revealed. John's words, which had held a sincerity as strong as his desperation for the broth, or the fear in John's eyes – they'd said enough. More than likely the fear, because John refused to hide any of it.

He had every reason to be afraid.

Rodney swallowed, his throat bobbing like a sinker being tugged by a fish. " What did they do?"

John looked away, down at the hem of the blanket twisting in his writhing hands.

Rodney moaned. " Oh don't even go Bartleby the Scrivener on me."

John shot his gaze up to give Rodney a questioning look. " Huh?"

" Bartleby the Scrivener? By Herman Melville? About a guy who hires this scrivener that wouldn't do a lick of work because of depression or some crap? But the guy never fires him because he feels sorry for him. Even ends up relocating his office just to get away from the freak. Then the freak ends up dying of starvation because he never eats, never giving a single reason why he refused to do what he was asked to do. A scrivener is a scribe..."

" I know what a scrivener is," John interceded. " And I'm no scrivener."

" You're MENSA material," Rodney retaliated.

" But I'm not starving myself," John shot back.

" You're clamming up, falling into the muck and mire of self pity..."

That last comment was like a knife to the gut, and John stiffened in rage. " I am _not_ pitying myself! I – I just can't talk about it, not yet."

Rodney sat on the edge of John's bed, features softening and everything. " That bad?"

" Let's put it this way," John said with a shiver and conviction, " I just _ate_."

Rodney actually paled at that. " _That_ bad?"

" Seriously, McKay, not yet. I mean, I need to tell, because you need to know..." the rest of John's words drifted from him.

The Cys were worse than the Genii. At least the Genii had a motive.

What had been the Cyladrans' motivation? Petty revenge? Men had killed for less. But to kill for the purpose of humiliation... John couldn't fathom it. Reasons were not excuses, but they did shed light on the whys. Had it been the Genii using John and Mathers as ransom, killing Mathers to cause pain to Sheppard for the Genii killed by the shield, it would have made sense. It was no justification, just something more tangible, more personal. Even the wraith had motive – reason – and that was to feed.

The Cyladran's anger stemmed from rumor and an ageless old memorandum that had probably been rewritten so many times it was all screwed up. To kill a kid over a city they couldn't even find was an act dredged out of hell itself. Senseless, pointless, sub-zero cruelty... Hell, they probably did it out of pleasure! To the darkest pits with reason, Mathers' death had been for kicks. Nothing juvenile about that.

They frightened John. He wouldn't say so outright to McKay – but not out of pride which was seriously lacking anyways. A happy scientist was a content scientist, and a scared military commander generated the opposite effect.

" Just... Think of them in terms of the Genii, the wraith," John finished, rather lamely in his opinion. " Don't underestimate them."

Both fell into that uncomfortable, dragged-out silence forced on them by rattled nerves. No companionable silences here, both were too freaked for any comfort.

John searched for a change of subject. His stomach was starting to churn, urged on by a combination of unease and blood-stained memories of a dying soldier. Gulping, he allowed one more shudder, and pounced on the nearest subject at hand.

" Never took you for a literary buff, McKay."

McKay, staring with the distant gaze of one lost in thought, but graced with the skill of mental multitasking, shrugged. " High school and college credits. Can't become a scientist without suffering through a few lit courses."

John rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. " Ever allow yourself to realize how much life really does imitate art?"

" Even the weird, impossible stuff?"

" Especially the weird, impossible stuff."

TBC...


	7. Weight of the World

John kept his Cyladran experience to himself. It wasn't by choice - withholding information for some obscure reason. He would never do that. It's just that whenever he did try to talk, his throat would close up, his mind would run a blank, and he was fairly certain his gaze glazed over.

The reasoning behind this was an enigma even to him. The more the others pressed, the tougher it was to yank the words from his throat. Lucky for him, Heightmeyer came to his rescue with a no argument 'he just needs time'. John was all ready to be thankful, but the words 'trauma', 'post-traumatic stress' and 'exhaustion' put a halt to all gratitude.

John had plenty of moments in his life that should have left him traumatized. Trauma had never been a problem for him. Yet even he had to admit that something was different – off – and it caused the sensation of bugs beneath the skin trying to figure it out.

John was set free from the infirmary after three days. Strength was at an acceptable level to keep the good highland doctor from worrying. John still had a ways to go before he was back to combat ready, and he knew with a twist in his gut that combat ready involved more than just the physical. Heightmeyer was going to be hunting him out.

At least that was the usual pattern. A day after being released, and John waited in his quarters for the blackmail to begin – To step foot off world, he had to go through Kate first.

It never came. Apparently even Kate was taking her own advice and giving John his space. But she would be waiting. John wouldn't be surprised if she was having him stalked in the name of observation, watching him for signs of emotional breakdown.

John's response to that – bring it on, doc. He didn't really care. He wasn't going to fault anyone for worrying, not when he wasn't even going to try to feign being fine.

Mathers' body had yet to be retrieved.

Apprehension made John's stomach churn non-stop. He may have had an appetite in the infirmary, but it was now on the decline.

Day one of being out of the infirmary was spent napping and picking at food in the mess, with only snippet bites ever being taken. Day two, naps, walks, and more food picking. Being in the very public mess, it didn't go unnoticed.

Rodney was mutilating his waffle trying to cut it one-handed with the edge of his fork. " I was right." He stuffed syrup-soaked waffle into his mouth.

John drew a smiley face in the puddle of syrup beside his own waffle, and watched it fade. " About what?"

" You're going scrivener."

John rolled his eyes up at McKay. " You need better metaphors."

" Similes."

John scraped his fork across his tray. It parted the syrup like claw marks. " Whatever."

McKay did a little scraping of his own as he sliced off another bite of waffle. " Getting a little testy 'Bartleby'?"

John shook his head. " If I'm Bartleby, you're Ahab."

" Why?"

" You're obsessive."

McKay dropped his eating utensil and perked in offense. " I am not!"

John tapped his fork on the tray in no particular cadence. " Yes, you are. You won't get off the Bartleby metaphor. Pick a new one."

McKay snorted and resumed mutilating and stuffing. " Why should I? It's perfect. You're wallowing in silent brooding and you've hardly touched your breakfast. I give you a day, and you're back in the infirmary." Rodney shoved more waffle into his mouth and talked around it. " No way is the witch doctor going to let you die of starvation."

John finally cut a piece of waffle using Rodney's technique without the butchering and stuck it in his mouth. " Happy?" he said while chewing.

" Show me half that waffle gone, then I'll get off your back. Speaking of riding your 'arse' as Carson might put it... Why hasn't the local shrink been baring down on your bony butt? You finally scare her off for good? Wouldn't be surprised. Seriously, I do not understand why that woman hasn't insisted on you being locked up. You're clearly insane."

John scraped his fork, making the plastic shriek. " Please tell me that was just an attempt at being funny. It was, right, _McKay_?"

McKay, nonplussed, took a drink from his coffee mug before replying. " Oh please. Don't even try to pull that intimidation 'I'm off my rocker and liable to do some harm' crap. You're insane because after having nearly taken my hand off just to down some broth, you're now deliberately avoiding placating your own stomach. You'd think you would have learned a little lesson after having been deprived of nourishment for so long."

John took another bite and shrugged. " I've got a lot on my mind."

" Care to share?"

John looked at Rodney pointedly. " Have I yet?"

Rodney pointed his fork at John. " Yeah. What's up with that anyways? Elizabeth's getting antsy for a report and won't stop hounding the rest of us about whether or not you've talked to anyone. Isn't that a little... I'm not sure how to put it... wrong, maybe? I mean there's a soldier missing or dead, you apparently know something about it, and you won't say anything. That's just... It sounds rather selfish. Whatever's going on it that head of yours can't be so bad that you wouldn't give a young kid his due for doing his duty."

John's suddenly nerveless fingers released their hold on his fork, and it clattered onto the tray, splattering syrup. The words could have been bullets the way they packed a punch, hitting John square in the chest, shoving the breath from his lungs. McKay was right in so many aspects that John wanted to vomit. Mathers had died doing what a soldier did – saving lives, in this case the life of his CO - and John was the only one who knew it.

That was wrong, disgustingly wrong, selfishly wrong.

Guilt drilled into John, and he looked at McKay. The story – true story - was there, but the words remained stuck in his throat.

 _What the hell is wrong with me_!

McKay stared back at John, alarmed. " Colonel?"

John shoved his tray away, abruptly rose to his feet, and strode quickly from the mess. He was aware of leaving Rodney in the dust to reel in confusion – maybe even guilt in thinking that he'd probably said something wrong. John would need to amend that, but not yet. John needed to think, and he needed someplace quiet to do it. The balcony was too conspicuous, so he took to the halls leading deeper into the obscured parts of the city. He picked the first room he came to and went in, keeping the lights from flickering on with a thought.

He dropped against the wall by the door, draping his arms loosely over his upturned knees.

 _What's different?_ Of all the losses to start shredding his conscience into confetti, why the two week acquaintance? Because of the suffering that was shared? Because Mathers had been just a kid? Ford had been just a kid. Half the soldiers of Atlantis were just kids.

Why couldn't John talk about it?

 _Why is it doing this to me? What' so freakin different!_

John jolted at the blare of alarms signifying gate activation. Cold shot down his spine, and his heart started up a marathon-run thumping. He darted from his seat against the wall, tearing from the room and down the hall to the control room. He arrived, skidding to a stop, just in time to hear the words 'unscheduled activation' and see the gate rush open in an explosion of foam. When it congealed, John's hands twitched for want of... he wasn't really sure what, just something, anything to grip to for dear life.

" Receiving Major Lorne's IDC..."

Hope spilled into John like water through a breach. The team was already stepping through the gate one by one. Lorne, however, shook his head. No body to show for all that gate jumping from alpha site to obscure rock to the Mykote/Cyladran world. No Mathers home coming.

John's teeth could have cracked under the pressure of his clenched jaw.

" John?"

John looked over and up at Elizabeth. She was moving toward him, brow furrowed, face troubled, and assurances at the ready. But John never gave her the chance when he turned and moved quick as he could without running away from the public place.

Why he kept clinging to hope, he didn't get. He had more thinking to do.

SGASGASGASGA

A shrink John was not. It was his own head and he couldn't even shut it up. Sleep was made unpleasant by visions of blood pooling in a split chest-cavity and liquid screams. He awoke with a gasp, followed by a mad dash to the bathroom just as his stomach expelled everything in a stream of burning liquid.

It was pointless to try again. This had been the third attempt, and puking was a good sign that it hadn't been a charm. He was in sweats and a T-shirt, safe enough clothes to be seen in were he caught out in the halls. With a quick rinse of his mouth, a drink, and slipping his boots on over bare feet, he left his quarters for a little stroll through the darkness.

Direction was disregarded as he took one corridor after another. At one point he passed the lab, heard the muffled click of keys on a laptop, and slowed.

His minds eye could see through the doors to the hunched back of McKay, typing one handed.

John just had to give in to a drink. Then what did he do? He listened to Culs again! Freakin' salvation at a sicko's price. Twice, the man had gotten him twice. How the hell does that happen? Hunger, delirium – okay, John would buy that. He'd been pretty freakin' out of it. He probably would have listened if it had been Menk handing out the keys to freedom.

John twitched his head. No, he didn't buy that. He'd been clear-headed enough to sense that something was off.

 _It'd been so damn obvious! He fooled me twice?_ And what was that platitude? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

John quickened his steps on moving away from the lab. It was starting to make a lot of sense. It was all his fault.

Now there was a sobering epiphany.

SGASGASGASGA

John was MIA. Not officially since he was seen at the occasional meal or glimpsed walking down the halls, maintaining more of a haunting presence than anything legit. He wasn't even to the point of being cleared for light duty, so it wasn't like he had a lot to hold him down to one spot. He'd become adept at avoiding everyone, physically and verbally. Even when he was there in body, it was made apparent through the vacant stares and complete lack of attention to conversation that he wasn't there in mind.

His reason – he was thinking. Always thinking, always with a lot on his mind.

But Kate didn't have to hear it to know it. She'd had her share of glimpses, and had seen the gears at work. The man was lost in thought in every sense of the word, and drowning in it. Carson was going to be pissed if he ever managed to run across John. The Colonel was veering away from the mend, going sallow-faced. He was already sunken-eyed.

Kate took it upon herself to keep tabs on where John was sighted, and where he went when possible. The latter was the most difficult. It was coming to the time when she would need to have Weir order John in for a session, even if it meant he had to be physically escorted. Kate had given John time, since time usually did the trick and brought John in on his own accord. But even she knew it was not always guaranteed. Force usually ended up being the next course of action anyways.

Kate caught on to rumors that John had been seen strolling the corridors late at night, taking the spook attribute a little farther. Curious, she started having coffee in the evening, and taking strolls of her own. She went to the places that John would naturally veer toward – his 'haunts' appropriately enough. Places where he went for runs, the balcony, the lab, and the gym where he did stick fighting with Teyla.

All duds. She headed to the jumper bay. In the dark, with its size, she didn't deny that it was creepy. There was a hollow echo to it like a constant exhale or the sound a sea-shell makes when placed against the ear, only deeper, way deeper. She shivered, flinching at the reverberation of her footsteps through the cavern of metal.

" I figured it out." The voice was a whisper magnified by the acoustics of the chamber. Kate yelped and whirled in circles in search of the voice. Her eyes were slow to adjust, but they adjusted plenty for her to see a small mass of darkness against the larger, lesser darkness of the wall to the right. She moved toward it with uncertain, tentative steps. She was trying not to startle John, but at the same time she was trying not to startle herself by _not_ startling John.

As though in response to her discomfort, the lights were raised, just a little, enough for Kate to see John. He was on the floor, thumping his head repeatedly against the wall with hands flat on either side of him. Kate stopped in front of him, and when he didn't acknowledge her presence, she moved beside him to sit. His head kept thumping away.

She opened her mouth to ask " figured what out, John?" but he moved fast even when he was only speaking.

" It's all my fault. I really did have a chance to save him." He squinted his eyes. Chances were, his head was hurting from being banged, if it hadn't been hurting already. He looked very fitting to be a ghost, sickly pallor and shadow-eyed as he was. All Carson's hard work was circling the drain - John was reverting.

John slammed his head against the wall. " Son of a bitch!"

Kate flinched, fighting flight instincts. " John?" She placed her hand on his shoulder. It was uncomfortably bony, and John was shivering.

" I screwed up. Crap, I saw it coming. I saw it coming twice! I knew something was wrong! What the freakin' hell is wrong with me!" He slammed his head again for emphasis.

" John, don't do that..." She placed her hand on the back of his head to stop the thumping and further attempts at self-made concussions.

John was panting, seething. The emotions on his face were fleeting, interchanging with fury, grief, confusion, then back to fury. Kate moved her hand from John's head when she was sure he wasn't going to continue the self-abuse, and moved it to his back and protruding spine. It was nauseating, the clear feel of bone through the stretched skin and cloth of the shirt. John's unplaceable fury was even worse. Kate was getting nervous. A few more outbursts and she would be scared.

" We all make mistakes..."

John turned on her, and she snatched her hand back to shrink away.

" Mine cost lives! Do you understand that! I screwed up, and he's dead! All I had to do was _not follow freakin' Culs! The man screwed me twice!_ TWICE! MATHERS IS DEAD BECAUSE I – LISTENED – TO – CULS! _HE SCREWED ME TWICE!_ "

John's chest heaved with heavy breaths, and saliva stretched from his jaw in long, shining strings to the floor. He slammed himself back into the wall with head tilted back. After a moment of deep breaths, his respiration slowed. " I think it was the way he talked," he rasped resignedly.

Kate was shaking, and clasped her hands together to stop it. " C-Culs?"

John closed his eyes and nodded. " He – um... he was really – you know – mild mannered. Kind of guy you could go up to in a bar, have a few drinks with, and be buddies for life." John's chest jerked in hitched, breathy laughs. " He – he said he liked me. He said it twice. And I freakin' believed him! Because they're good at that – the Cys... at lying, I mean. They're good, they're really good. I didn't even know my team was released a week before me. But they weren't lying when they said I'd meet up with them. That was probably the only thing that was true. And you know what's really funny? They never laid a finger on me and Mathers. They just did the _attempted rape_ thing by stripping us down to our underwear," he spat, " then chained us like dogs to a pole to give the locals a good chuckle. And – and then – get this – they gave us sewage for food, and just when we were really starting to trip, Culs comes along singing freedom, sweet freedom, dragging are skinny butts out into the woods - and fed his freakin' hell-hounds using _Mathers_!"

Kate's jaw dropped.

" And it's my fault! _I – killed – him_!" he screamed into the air, at the ceiling. " _I – killed – hiiiim_! I – KILLED – HIIIIM!"

Kate's heart felt like it was trying to escape her own body. She gripped John's shoulder and shook him.

" John, calm down, please..." but her voice was drowned out by John's screams. Someone was going to hear, call security. Security rushing in would bring attention – followers, onlookers – and John's privacy would be shot to hell. There would be questions, forced sessions... the man was just trying to vent. He needed to before it killed him.

John was spared becoming an exhibition when his breath caught and he choked. He coughed a heavy, chest deep cough that incited pain made manifest on his twisted features.

Kate patted his back awkwardly. " John, it's okay John. Listen to me. You didn't kill him. _You didn't kill Mathers_. The Cyladrans did. You were just desperate, John, that's why you listened to Culs. You were hungry, sick, exhausted. You wanted out and took the only way presented to you. If you'd stayed, you would have both died. It's not your fault. It is not – your – fault." She was tempted to have him repeat it over and over out loud.

John had dropped his head onto his knees, and remained like that, just breathing.

" John?"

John let out a shuddering heave of a sigh. " I'm sorry."

" For what?"

John rolled his head sideways to look at her. 'Spent' didn't cover his present appearance. He looked so sad, horribly sad.

 _Gee, Kate, I wonder why?_

John wiped one eye with his palm. " For freaking out."

Kate shrugged. " Hey, we all have our moments."

John lifted his head abruptly, startling Kate.

" Doctor/patient confidentiality stands, right? I know this isn't some kind of a session. More like a fluke. But it still stands?"

Kate nodded. " Yeah, of course, John."

John wiped his face, his eyes darting about suspiciously. " I have a confession to make."

Kate twitched a pathetic smile. " I'm not really a priest, John but... okay." She grimaced at that. She wouldn't blame him if he stormed out this very second.

John, however, offered a brief pathetic smile of his own that was gone when Kate blinked.

" What is it, John?" she pressed.

John sniffed and looked about in the distracted manner of one regaining self control.

" I'm... scared..."

Kate wasn't exactly floored by it, but it did strike her as odd. It was troubling enough that John was talking to her on his own power, by his own choice, opening up in a way he never had before. The man didn't just bottle feelings, he sealed them in impenetrable vaults.

To confess being afraid – it didn't matter to what, just that he was – she wouldn't have seen it coming from even two feet away. Hints, innuendos, maybe. Never full blown admittance.

As much as she should have been appreciating this cooperation, in truth it was dredging up a little fear of her own.

But she knew better than to put a halt to all this. They'd officially crossed a line, and there was no turning back. " Scared of what?"

John looked away at his feet, his fingers clenching and unclenching. " For the record, this isn't the easy part," he said. " I don't even know why the hell I'm telling you all this. I wouldn't tell Elizabeth anything and she's the one who needs to know. It's just... even thinking about it makes me sick."

" What, Mathers' death?"

At this, John looked up to stare into the distance, brow raised and eyes fever-bright. He was realizing something, Kate could see. Things were starting to click for him. Confessions really were wonders, harboring their own momentum. Once they started, they just kept going.

" Yeah," he said. " But... also the way he died. It was all about humiliation. They never touched us 'til the end. Mathers was mauled, and I was kicked. We were running in our boxers. You couldn't get much more vulnerable than that. Mathers hated being on display. Kid had a major modest streak. Wasn't a picnic for me either. I thought the rest of the team were going through it too, but... I don't know if they were. I never... really asked. None of my business."

John looked directly at Kate, and the fear and fury poured from him like molten rock.

" The Cys don't care what they do. I can honestly say – that without a doubt – I hate them more than the Genii." Tears shimmered on the precipice of John's eyes. " They didn't need to do what they did. No rhyme, no reason, they just did it! And I don't get it. They hate us, Kate. They hate us more than anyone else in this freakin' galaxy. They make the Genii look like our pals."

Kate's stomach soured over, and she gulped back rising bile. John was rattled beyond even his own comprehension, and that was bad. But Kate understood. She'd talked to Teyla, Rodney, and Ronon. She knew about the Cys and their ability to hide. They were world travelers, they knew how to get around, scrounge information.

And now she knew they hated Atlantis. So of course John would be rattled. Protecting Atlantis was John's burden, and the Cylandrans were officially a threat. With the right intel, and their ability to remain anonymous, they could discover Atlantis still stood, and find a way to take it. Or simply become a deadly hindrance to future missions.

They were also the straw that broke the camel's back – Sheppard's back. The last thing John Sheppard needed in his life was another enemy.

Kate placed her hand on his twitching back. She was starting to suspect that he was cold. " John. You need to tell Elizabeth what happened to Lt. Mathers. Write it down if you need to. Or I'll tell her... if you find you can't, I mean. And you have every right to be afraid, just stop blaming yourself for what happened to Mathers and your team. Nobody else blames you, so no point in being the only one." She gave a wan chuckle. " Listen, do me a favor. Go to Carson, let him help you out, give you some sleeping pills for the insomnia, and you won't have to come in and see me – unless you want to. It'll be your choice, I swear. You did good by talking to me, volume level aside. Don't let these Cylandrans keep beating you down like this. It's not your fault. Never was."

John wiped his eyes, then nodded. " Heard you the first couple of times, doc."

" Heard isn't the same as listening." She stood, taking his arm in both hands. " Come on, we need to get you to Carson."

She actually had to do some work in helping him to his feet. He kept one hand on the wall to steady himself as they headed out the jumper bay. The lights dimmed behind them.

" Call me Bartleby," John muttered.

" What?"

He shook his head. " Nothing."

TBC...


	8. For Want of Hope

Elizabeth folded her hands on top of the table and leaned forward. " The Cyladrans are still a threat."

Kate seemed unable to sit, hovering behind the chair instead. " I would say so, yes. I want John to tell you the details on his own, but for the time being the details aren't important. What is important is that the Cyladrans harbor deep bitterness, and we didn't even have to do anything to cause it except show up. Now, I'm not confirming that they might try something else, I'm just giving you the preliminary of what I gathered from John and his team. From a psychological stand-point, I'd say the Cyladrans warrant caution. Who knows, maybe what they did to John and Mathers satisfied their need for revenge. Then again, maybe it didn't. I just don't think we should pass off this encounter with the Cyladrans as over."

Elizabeth looked down at her hands. Really, she'd rather be hearing all this from her CO, not the base shrink, but John was down for the count in a drug-induced sleep. Kate wasn't acting as mediator for the man, she'd come on her own terms, feeling the information gleaned from Sheppard's team too vital to wait on.

What happened to John and Mathers – _exactly_ – wasn't forthcoming. It didn't really matter though. All that mattered was the Cys being responsible for Mathers' death, and them being a possible threat to Atlantis.

Elizabeth would still rather hear all this from John so they could discuss what to do.

Speaking of her CO... " What about John?"

Kate shrugged. Elizabeth wasn't liking the helpless look on the shrink.

" He was pretty worked up last night. I can't even say when he finally realized I was the one he was talking to... Not that he even cared when he did realize. He's pulled confidentiality on me so I can't go into it too much. And – like I said – I'd rather he be the one to do the talking. I will say this; he's taking it hard (obviously) and the last thing he needed was another potential enemy to keep him looking over his shoulder. He's stressed – very, very stressed."

" Well, he's been stressed before, overwhelmed..."

" Which is probably half his problem," Kate replied. " Look, I can't get into it or I might say something John won't be too happy about. I'm pretty certain it won't be lasting – he won't want it to. He's going to want to be back on duty as soon as possible."

" Will he be able to?"

" Knowing John? Yes. But I'm apprehensious. There's going to be... trust issues."

" With our people?"

Kate shook her head. " The rest of the galaxy."

Elizabeth remained composed in the face while inside she cringed. John already had trust issues with the rest of the galaxy. They all did. How much further could one take that mistrust? Shooting blindly into a forest just because a twig snapped? Elizabeth knew John was a better man than that.

She didn't want to ask it, hated having to ask it, but had to ask it so did. " What do we have to look forward to... worry about?"

Kate crossed her arms and shook her head. " I have no idea."

The answer didn't inspire confidence.

" It's all up to John. Dr. Weir, this may be crossing the line a bit in confidentiality, but what the Cyladrans did to Sheppard would have made the Genii drool."

SGASGASGASGA

Two days later

John jerked his knee so that his heel tapped the step. From his seat at the top of the stairs, he could watch the gate when it finally rushed to life. Keeping to the side, people could hurry past him as though he weren't even there.

He checked his watch. Lorne's team would be back in the next five minutes, round about. Punctuality wasn't always a promise on any given mission.

" ... If it was really that easy do you think..." McKay's irate voice was interrupted the exact moment something hard struck John in the ribs. Both men let out a cry – one of alarm, the other of pain. John curled, hugging his chest. Rodney snarled a curse, gripping John's shoulder to steady himself.

" Colonel, what the hell!"

John sucked in a sharp, unsteady breath but kept his eyes firmly on the gate. " McKay, I'm not to one _not_ watching where I'm going."

" No, you're the one acting like a road block! You don't want to get kicked, then get off the floor."

The muscles in John's shoulders and back pulled until they hurt. _'Kiss off, McKay'._ The words made the tip of John's tongue itch to be said. Rather than speak, he ran his tongue across his molars. Getting into a pissing contest with Rodney would be a distraction, and John didn't want to miss the incoming wormhole.

" Colonel. Colonel? Sheppard!"

The contest was inevitable, because Rodney didn't know when to stop being persistent.

But even John was aware it took one to know one. " Rodney, I have every right in every world to sit where I dang well please, so stow it."

" No, you don't because you're in people's way..."

" No he's not," a control tech said on heading out.

" Nobody asked you," Rodney snapped. " And you, Colonel, the control room has windows. Go get in everyone's way there. I mean what if one of Lorne's team is down and Beckett has to rush in here? Think they're going to be watching where they're going...?"

Alarms shattered the normally mellow ambiance of the city, and John's heart jolted with it.

" Incoming wormhole!"

John pushed himself to his feet and hurried forward. The gate exploded to life, liquid and rippling, and armed men formed a wall around the perimeter.

Lorne's IDC was announced, followed by the shield blinking off. Seconds later the team emerged, one by one, starting with Lorne. Lorne stopped in front of Sheppard, but John's gaze went past the major to the influx of the rest of Lorne's team.

" I'm sorry sir..."

John's eyes flicked back to Lorne. The man looked beat, melancholy, and subdued.

" He wasn't there."

The last man emerged, and not any from the team carried a stretcher or body bag between them. John's heart stumbled over itself.

" With all due respect sir," Lorne said. " I doubt a body's going to show up any time soon."

John's fingers curled into a tight, quivering fist, nails biting into his palm. " It will," he said, tone flat and forcefully controlled against his own raging will. He'd seen this coming, expected it, and it still wasn't easy – like holding back the wind with his bare hands. " We just won't know when."

John turned with a stiff back and marched up the steps to the control room where Elizabeth stood.

" We need to talk," he said abruptly, and without waiting for a response headed to the conference room. " You too McKay," he said on passing the physicist. In a rare moment, John was the first in the room, but wasn't planning on sitting. He paced in jerky strides, even when Elizabeth and Rodney entered.

" Shouldn't we wait for Teyla and Ronon?" Rodney nervously asked. His answer was John closing the room off. Weir moved to the other side of the table at her usual seat, but made no moves to sit down either.

" What is it, John?" Elizabeth asked in that neutral way of hers. John would have sold his soul for a piece of that calm. A headache was forming behind his eyes, leaking into his forehead to crawl deeper into his skull. He massaged the area, digging his fingers into the stretched skin of his forehead.

" I want to go get him," he stated. His heart was beating hard enough to concuss itself.

" John," Elizabeth's calm was faltering, " not just is that _a bad_ idea, it's a _terrible_ idea."

John turned on Rodney before Elizabeth could say more. " They use devices that hide their outposts. Isn't there a way to pick up on the signals or energy signatures?"

" Um, probably not. The devices were designed for camouflage purposes, which means they were designed _not_ to emit any kind of a signature, which means there's probably no way of tracing the Cyladrans through their devices. If anything, the devices probably hide other signatures from other devices. So, I think it's safe to say - no, absolutely not."

John gave Rodney a look that made the physicist wither. It wasn't intentional, but John's face refused to express anything else.

" John."

John turned to Elizabeth. Her features were self-contained, but her shoulders were rigid. " Think about it John. These people are advanced, their lives revolve around remaining hidden, and they have technology not even hinted at in the Ancient database. You launch a strike against them – for a _body_ – and we'll only end up losing more lives. John, I know you're angry, I know you want Mathers' body returned to earth, but we can't risk it, I'm sorry."

They were waiting for him to explode. It was written in every taut line of their face, in their tension, and unwavering gaze. But John was going to have to dissapoint. Increasing nausea was smothering all fury.

" I know," he admitted without compunction.

Tension of fear became tension of surprise, and both replied simultaneously, " What?"

John planted both hands on the seat in front of him and leaned forward heavily. The ache in his head oozed into his shoulders, down his back, and a tsunami was thrashing around in his stomach. " I know. I just... wanted to... It was just an idea." He desperately did not want to go where he had no choice _but_ to go, say what he had no choice but to say.

Weir squinted. " John? Are you all right."

John swallowed and flicked his tongue over his lips. " Call..." he faltered and cleared his throat. " Call it off," he blurted. " Don't send anyone else... for Mathers'... body." Each word was a hammer blow to the gut, and a bitter, metallic taste was seeping into John's mouth. " I don't... want to run the risk of anyone else being taken. It's taking too long..."

Elizabeth nodded guardedly. " I agree."

" Well," said Rodney, " if that was your real plan then why not just say so..."

" Because I had to try!" John snapped, then clamped his jaw shut. He really did feel one word away from puking. Elizabeth moved away from her seat to take Rodney by the arm and direct him out the opening doors. John caught the words 'go get Beckett', and oddly enough found himself mentally urging Rodney to hurry. He flinched when Elizabeth next took his arm and guided him into a seat.

She didn't say anything, just stood by him like a sentinel.

John closed his eyes, massaging his forehead. " I can order to leave his body behind - but I can't tell you what happened to him. That make any sense to you?"

Elizabeth's hand moved to his shoulder and squeezed. " One was a necessity. The other can wait."

John opened his eyes. He opened his mouth in preparation to spit out his story, but the moment the images struck his mind, he gagged, lurching forward. Lucky for him, nothing came up say for that sweet taste that always heralds the vomit. He swallowed it back with a shiver and ground-out curse.

" Ah crap... that was a really bad idea." He slammed the table with his fist. " Why is this so freakin' hard!" Then he gasped. " Ah man, I really don't want to leave him there. Not with those people. They're probably..." _feeding him to their eraks._ Again, another bad idea, and John did another gag.

" John," said Elizabeth. " Don't try to talk about it. Today just isn't the day either. Maybe tomorrow."

" Or the next day, or the next," John muttered. " This is stupid. They're sick, freakin' sick... They're doing this on purpose." He shook his head. " And I have no freakin' idea why." Then he held up a single finger. " But I knew they would. I knew, because they're superb liars. I mean if you played poker with these guys they'd win every time. Hell they should be on freakin' Broadway! I actually believed that there was a freakin' chance they might return Mathers." He dropped his hand on the table with a slap. He shook his head again at himself and this apparent naïve streak he seemed to be having.

He had wanted to believe Mathers' body would be dumped at the gate, whatever it's condition. Belief had been a fake smile aimed at himself to satisfy his moral compass long enough for him to force himself through the gate. Then, once said and done, he had stretched and stretched it, riding the small flicker of hope that – maybe, just maybe – the Cyladrans had a molecule speck of humanity enough in them to hold to their word and hand over a body that was of no use to them.

Or, more appropriately, leave a mutilated carcass to rub in the Earthling's faces. Fake smiles hid nothing. John hadn't been fooling himself, just feeding delusion. It had been the only way to deal, to keep from storming back through the gate with guns blazing and his body dropping because it was too soon.

He had been saving himself.

 _Selfish be thy name. Selfish be thy game. Rodney has me pegged._

" I believed," John breathed. He twisted his upper body around to look up at Elizabeth imploringly. Self preservation was a choice, and he didn't want to continue down that road, not over something as simple as saying what had happened. " You need to know..."

Elizabeth looked at him apologetically - sadly. " Too late," she quietly replied.

Beckett arrived with McKay on his heels. John glanced at the doctor, then looked up at Elizabeth.

" Gotta go," he resignedly said. He stood, and by keeping his mouth shut didn't even need bodily support on heading to the infirmary. He was only a quarter way there when not even remaining tight-lipped did any good, and his stomach expelled everything it'd tried so hard to digest.

TBC...


	9. If Only

Since John had never voluntarily given up on anything in his life, he wasn't quite sure how to handle it. Mathers may now be only a corpse, but 'leave no man behind' meant ' _leave no man behind'_ whether breathing or not. It was an act of respect, of friendship, and a reminder that one was still human, and that humans were allowed to care.

Plus it pissed John off to a boiling point at the thought of what the Cys might be doing to that body. Mathers didn't deserve this, but John could only add him to the list of people who didn't deserve the crap that happened to them. Maybe put him somewhere just below Ford... Actually, placement didn't matter, it was all equal.

John stared up at the shadow-drenched ceiling of his quarters, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting on his chest with his fingers drumming his sternum. Beckett would have dropped dead from shock on seeing John following his advice to the letter. John had overcome his initial bouts of nausea at having condemned Mathers' body to remain in hell, and was back to properly digesting three square meals with snacks on the side. In between, he rested. Tomorrow, less rest, more moving about.

The problem with resting – if it wasn't the bad dreams making him squirm, it was too much thinking keeping his eyes from closing. He really wanted to flip the off switch to his brain – if there were an off switch. Beckett's magic knock-out pills would do the trick. He was contemplating taking one now, maybe half of one for an uninterrupted nap. Beckett had okayed a small dosage for naps. John's only reluctance was the notion that a dependency might be formed, and that he wouldn't be able to conk out ever again without a little chemical support to help him out.

Better debating sleep or no sleep then trying to fathom the sadistic nature of the Cyladrans. The Genii made more sense than them, and weren't the perverse type to hold onto bodies just because they could.

Now this was bad. The Genii were starting to take a turn as the lesser of two evils. Three if John counted the wraith. But he wasn't about to downplay the wraith. The life suckers and Cys were on equal ground in matters of evil intent.

" _This is not a good time if he is trying to rest."_

John tore his gaze from forming images in the shadows on the ceiling to look toward the door.

" _We can't wait!_ " John knew that hissing, fractious voice to be McKay. The other voice he pinned as being Teyla's.

" _It may be too soon. If the Colonel is still ill, this may make it worse."_

" _It's what he's been brooding over for the past two days. You really want to be the one to deal with him when he wakes up and finds out he was the last to know? Because I sure as hell don't..."_

Curious, wary, and annoyed, John rolled from his bed and moved stiffly to the door. It opened without a sound, causing Rodney to jump and Teyla to whip her head around at John's sudden presence.

" Colonel," she said, quickly composing herself. McKay attempted to imitate Teyla's sudden, practiced calm, but discomfort poured from him like a mud slide. So John pinned him with his gaze.

" Teyla... _Rodney._ " John smiled tightly. " What do I owe the pleasure?" There was no way in hell he was going to let them beat around the bush.

Rodney, still trying, cleared his throat. " Uh... There's been... a development..."

" _Rodney_?"

He felt Teyla's hand grip his upper arm. " Colonel, I think it best if you came with us... and... see for yourself."

John's body went cold at Teyla's careful tone. He looked at her, saw the pity, and felt his heart nose-dive into his gut.

" What?"

" Colonel, please."

John jerked his arm away. " What! What happened? What's going on?"

Rodney exhaled a sharp breath. " It's... Mathers."

SGASGASGASGA

The bones were arranged on the table in the semblance of how they had once fit together to form the human frame. There were a few fingers missing, the half of two ribs, and a toe. Not a sliver of flesh or dried muscle was left. These bones were gleaned of all tissue.

And wasn't it just last week that John had been crooning about shaving cream with the kid who owned these bones? Wasn't it just last week that Mathers was curled into a ball because he hated being so freakin' exposed! Wasn't it just last week...

" They were found before the gate," Teyla explained, " by the Aylans. The Aylans had stepped through to trade, and found the bones and the Lieutenant's clothes in a sack. They recognized the clothes, so knew to bring the bag to us when we visited."

John picked up one of the ribs.

" So they give him back when we give up," Rodney said, disgusted. " Why am I not surprised. These people are freaks, absolute freaks."

John studied the rib, every nick, chip, and scrape. Setting it down, he picked up the femur.

" Why would they do this?" Teyla asked. " What is the purpose behind withholding the body?"

" Obviously not to use as bait," said Weir. " They had plenty of chances to attack those sent to retrieve the remains."

John looked the femur over carefully. More chips, nicks, scratches, but also deeper gouges and ragged ends. Cold crept along John's back like crawling fingers of ice.

" They're rubbing superiority complexes in our faces," Rodney spat, " making sure we never forget that they're technologically superior and can do whatever the hell they want. I wouldn't be shocked if their society had a Nazi mind-set. 'We're better, you're not, so we can do whatever the hell we want because your inferior dogs.' That sound about right?"

Nicks, scratches, chips on the skull, a large one at the corner of the jaw-bone. John's stomach began to churn in that not too promising way he had hoped he'd overcome.

" They're as bad as the wraith," Ronon growled.

John gripped the femur tight. " They're worse."

Every eye shot up to stare at John in alarm.

Rodney huffed. " How can anything be possibly worse than the wraith?"

Gouges, chips, nicks – they were on every bone. " Because the wraith do what they do to survive. The Cys, they do what they do..." John looked at Rodney. " Because... They can."

" But the wraith?" Rodney pressed.

John's grip on the femur had reached the point of shaking. He thrust the bone in Rodney's face.

" They fed him to their eraks, McKay!"

Rodney recoiled from the bone, then blanched as he reluctantly studied it. He didn't even seem to realize he was taking the femur from John's hand.

" Oh my gosh! T-They did!"

Carson picked up the shoulder blade, and his eyes rounded over. " Bloody hell. That's what these marks are then? Claws and – and _teeth_?"

John couldn't take any more. His stomach was ready to heave, and John couldn't let the others see it happen. Not here, not now. He couldn't be around the bones when it happened.

He hurried from the infirmary, the sound of his name being thrown at him by Elizabeth fueling his quick pace. Without looking and without thinking, he headed back to his quarters. He locked it once he stepped in, and kept the lights from flickering on. Dropping down onto his bed, he leaned forward to hide his face in his hands.

He'd never taken it seriously when he thought on the prospect of Mather's being erak food. It had been a thought to fuel his anger, a supposition that helped to describe the Cyladrans, but never anything he'd consider ever being a fact. And now that it was fact, he couldn't take it.

John's regrets were typical. If only he hadn't listened to Culs, if only he'd come up with an escape plan, if only he hadn't shouted to Mathers to stop. If only, if only, if only... He couldn't help the 'if onlys'. They came with the territory that was past misfortune.

If only he'd stopped Ford from leaving.

If only he'd gotten to Sumner sooner before the wraith queen fed.

In the darkness behind John's eyelids and hands, he saw their faces flash in a domino effect of regressing time. One by one they blinked in and out, as they were and as they became, with the events in between that brought them to where they were now. Not just Sumner and Ford, but Abrhams, Gauls, Grodin, young soldiers like Brian, people culled, people taken, people killed or people altered. All gone... gone, gone, gone, leaving behind the 'if onlys'.

John's real regret with Mathers – his one true regret, and the 'if only' that could have been possible - not crawling over in time to be with the kid in his final moments, so that he didn't have to die alone.

The Cys let the eraks eat him. Even dead, that was no way to go.

Erak fodder.

John couldn't hold it back any longer. Lurching forward, he opened his mouth in time for a thin stream of acidic liquid to choke from his throat and splatter on the floor. It wasn't quite the mess John had been expecting, but was fitting enough. A penance of suffering for those who suffered. It wasn't right in John's mind that he got off scott free when he was the one that was supposed to die.

A guardian's life was forfeit. That's the way it was supposed to be.

John absently wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

 _You can't protect them all._

John narrowed his eyes darkly. _I can sure as hell try._

 _And be the one to die?_

John shrugged a shoulder. _I'll do what it takes._

TBC...


	10. Young Goodman John

Teyla wiped the sweat from her face with the towel then tossed it onto the bench by her sticks. She dropped herself down on the other side and grabbed the bottle of water on the floor. She loved the convenience of bottles, reusable like canteens, but without the hindering bulk. These earth people were quite adept at simplifying. As she proceeded to unscrew the cap, Elizabeth walked in. Teyla smiled up at her.

" Dr. Weir."

" Teyla. Thought I'd find you here. Where's John?"

Teyla took a short swallow of water before replying. " He went to his quarters to bathe and rest. Practice went longer today."

Weir beamed. " And that's a good thing, right?"

Teyla pressed her lips in a straight, ponderous line. " I do not know." She took another sip. She was reluctant to elucidate. As much as she knew there was probably plenty of reason to worry about him, she didn't want that concern to spawn words that might get John into ill standing with Beckett on matters of health. Or Kate in matters of mental health.

" What do you mean?" Weir asked, much to Teyla's chagrin.

She screwed the cap back onto the bottle. " He may – though I am not certain – be pushing himself."

" Well, that's just John. You know how he is."

Teyla nodded. " I do. And I know Dr. Beckett will not be too happy to hear of it."

Elizabeth shrugged. " I doubt anything Beckett says or does will slow John down. As long as he doesn't over exert himself..."

" Oh, I do not let him. I ended the session when I noticed his hands were shaking. But he is improving. He did not wear as quickly as with previous sessions. His strength has most definitely increased." She paused for a moment, thinking over passed and recent sparrings.

" He's quieter," she said, mostly out of observation than concern. " He says very little before and after matches. He comes, we practice, then he leaves." What she didn't say was how uneasy it made her feel. She actually missed hearing his excuses for why he never practiced, and the occasional nonsensical comments he made in hopes of distracting her. Silence and a blank, expressionless face – they were unnatural attributes to have for John. Even when he wasn't talking he was at least supposed to be smiling.

Teyla looked directly at Elizabeth. " It has been days since Lt. Mathers' remains were sent back to earth. Do you think what happened is still troubling John?"

Elizabeth folded her arms loosely. " Perhaps. Personally I think John's just worried. He's been doing a lot of fine-tooth combing over security and safety protocols. Listen, Teyla, the reason I came wasn't just to ask about John. That is part of it, but I also wanted to know – personally from you – how things have been going on Sriot."

Sriot, one of the few worlds where trading endeavors went off without a hitch. The Sriotians were advanced enough for their own liking not to slobber, drool, and backstab over the devices Atlantis had. Weapons they didn't need. When culling time came – as it had before the wraith descended on Atlantis – the Sriotians went to underground caves beneath the mountains where generators hid their life signs. Basically, they literally disappear. And they had plenty of these generators to go around, one of which would soon grace Atlantis once Beckett brought requested vaccines. Sriot had been having trouble with a disease Dr. Beckett had said was very similar to an Earth sickness called the measles, and a slight altercation of the earth vaccine was all that was needed.

The vaccine was ready for the Sriotians to duplicate and manufacture. It was to be delivered tomorrow in exchange for the generator.

" Very well," Teyla said. " We have been invited to a feast, some food is also part of the trade, and there as been no disputes. Not that I would expect disputes from a Sriotian, not unless they had absolute reason. From my own experience, dealing with the Sriotians is – I suppose you could say – very pleasant. I actually look forward to visiting their world. Always have."

Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully. " Good. Because I was thinking that tomorrow when you go, John should come with you – if he's up to it. Not to lead and/or head negotiations; just, you know, as a visitor. Like a small vacation. I don't think remaining couped up in Atlantis is going to speed up his recovery. He needs to get out, move around, scratch the itch to get off-world."

Teyla grinned. " I agree. Sriot would be a good world for him to visit. It is very beautiful."

Elizabeth looked to the floor as she shifted her weight back and forth from one foot to the other. " The thing is," she said haltingly, " you'll need to keep an eye on him." She stilled and looked at Teyla. " We don't know how he'll react to being off-world. I know not violently, but Dr. Heightmeyer was rather hesitant about the idea of John stepping foot out of Atlantis. She sees no harm in it, but if he starts to show signs of agitation or extreme stress, she wants him brought back as soon as possible. If not, he can stay however long he wants to."

" I understand," Teyla said. She understood more than Elizabeth probably realized. As Dr. McKay put it, stepping off-world was no longer 'a picnic'. There had been concern enough as it was with wraith and Genii. Now they had – _what was the odd term McKay had used? - '_ Alien Nazis wanna-bes' to worry about.

" Thank you Teyla. Oh, but don't tell John of our little discussion. You know he hates it when he thinks he's being baby-sat. Or – _knows_ – he's being baby-sat."

Teyla smiled. " It will be kept between us."

SGASGASGASGA

Elizabeth watched the gate flush to life in a roar of crystal liquid. When it congealed, she nodded the go ahead. Lorne was the first to step through, followed by Ronon, Rodney, Teyla, Beckett, five soldiers and last but certainly never least, John.

He was last for a reason. As soon as he stepped up to the gate to be one foot away from going through, he stopped. Elizabeth frowned. The expression of trepidation on his face was like that of a child about to step into the doctor's office for a booster shot. He just stood there, staring, and nervous indecision melted away until John's face was utterly blank with eyes glazed over. Second thought badgered Elizabeth, escalating into screams against her inactivity.

 _He's not ready._

She could almost imagine the insane pounding of his heart. It had to be hammering the way his face had drained of color. Even from where she stood, Elizabeth could see him gripping his P-90 tight enough to break it – or to break his own hand.

Elizabeth touched the radio at her ear. " John? Remember, you don't have to go. You're not obligated too..."

John took that final step and vanished within the interstellar liquid.

Weir Grimaced. " Never mind."

Second thought brooded at the back of her mind, but wouldn't go away.

 _John needs this._

 _You sure about that?_

SGASGASGASGA

John stepped out into a field, a beautiful, emerald, right out of _The Sound of Music_ hill. The grass didn't even come up past the rim of his boots, and the layout was patched with clusters of bright flowers swaying in a cool breeze. The temperature was a mild seventy something – John surmised – the sky was clear say for patchy clouds, the sun was bright, birds were singing and insects a cross between dragonflies and butterflies hovered from plant to plant.

John's ears strained for the sound of a singing nun. The place was perfect to the point that he almost wanted to vomit. Because – what was it about perfection? - there was no such thing.

A hand clasped John on the shoulder and he jumped, snapping his head around to stare into Rodney's face.

" Took you long enough," he said. " Over the river and through the woods... Well, actually just over the hill. A couple of hills. Not a bad walk though, really."

The gate rushed close behind John and he shivered. Not that he could have turned heel and jumped back through against an outgoing wormhole, but something about it vanishing felt so – finalized.

Rodney kept pace with Sheppard as they followed the rest up the gradual incline. At the top, John could see the snow-capped peak of distant blue mountains. Two more hills were scaled, and John was thankful for all the extra sparring with Teyla and runs with Ronon. Even so, he still suffered heavy breathing more so than the rest, even Rodney, which did little for his pride.

Like John cared. Pride had been taking a back seat, mostly because he didn't want to deal with it.

" Hey, you okay?" Rodney asked. John looked at him. Rodney feigned indifference, but concern was betrayed in the way the physicist wouldn't stop staring at him.

To conserve breath, John nodded.

Rodney snorted derisively. " Yeah, and I'm Mother Tereasa."

" Not by a long shot, McKay," John had to say.

Rodney smirked approvingly. " A little more convincing. Look, just don't be fooled by your own macho crap and refuse to tell us when you need a break. It's not going to kill you to speak up, although it might kill you if you don't."

" I'm just a little out of shape," John said.

" Out of shape? You have no shape. You're like a... a... stick, a perfect stick. One of those chimney sweeps, the kind out of Dickens... or Mary Poppins..."

" Oh don't even go there!" John snapped. " Dickens I can handle, but no freakin' Disney flicks."

" What, you've got issues with Disney?"

" No, I've got issue with being compared to happy, singing, dancing chimney sweepers who have no idea they're lives are going to end painfully from black lung."

Rodney's head reared back in surprise. " Wow. Hate to say it, but you're starting to sound like me."

John glared at the back of the soldier in front of him. " Well ain't that just peachy."

Rodney slapped John lightly on the back, careful of the ribs that were fused but still tender. " Well, don't worry about it, because I'm going to give you advice straight out of the psalms of Sheppard. 'Think positive'."

John winced as though the words hurt – and they did. Too many bad memories in just those two words. The reaction didn't go unnoticed.

" Um, I know I asked this, but you okay?"

John shook his head dismissively. " Yeah, it's just... yeah."

Rodney scrutinized John, then pulled two Power bars from the pocket of his vest, handing one to Sheppard.

" You need it just as much as me."

John took the offered bar, despite having his own to gnaw on whenever. " Thanks. Just... do me a favor. Any women come singing over that hill, knock me out and drag me back to the gate. I'm liable to go postal."

Rodney snorted. " And I'd probably back you up."

Three more hills, and the team ascended the top of the final measly slope to stand before something far less gradual and a longer ways down. The view had John's eyes going round. They were looking into a valley, green and flower-patched, with a small town comfortably clustered within the center. Sound of Music Time again, the place was picturesque. Cottages with tiled roofs, cobbled streets, and even a bell tower within the middle of the building cluster. The mountains began on the other side of the valley, as well as a forest. That forest stretched to the horizon from east to west, thickest in the east where the trees were taller and more pact, from what John could tell.

The team descended the hill into the valley, coming to a pact dirt road winding to the town. They kept to the side of the road as behind them a man in a wagon being pulled by what looked to be a cross between Snuffelufugus and a horse trundled by. The Sriotians really did like to keep things simple. The man dipped his head in greeting at the Atlanteans.

" Morrow," he said. In one hand he held the reins guiding the beast, in the other a small pad akin to a life-signs detector. The contrast was mind reeling.

Though from the hilltop the town looked compacted together, closer inspection revealed the buildings to be spaced apart with room enough for wagons to go anywhere between the buildings.

Everything in the town was just so – quaint. John hated to use the word, but it fit perfectly. Painted trestles and gables, flower boxes, diamond-paned windows, and a Dutch design were the structures of the town of Gen. The women wore bright, modest dresses, some with cloaks made from a kind of shimmering material like silk. The men wore suits either tan, dark blue, or brown, while those of a militeristic profession - the Guardians – wore dark-blue uniforms like cops only without the badges. The time period could have been 19th or early 20th century, except for the bits and pieces of technology here and there.

The Guardians carried small hand guns that could interchange between bullets or incapacitating darts, or so John had heard. They also sported head-set radios similar to what the team wore now, only a mite larger. A woman watering the flowers in a flower box passed a kind of scanner over them, plucking out wriggling worms and other creepy-crawlers. Lining the cobble-stone pavement were street lamps, and the locks on the doors looked to be the kind requiring either key-cards, hand-print, or eye-scan identification.

The technology really had to be looked for within the masses of simple folk, riding in wagons, taking strolls – pretty much doing just about everything the naked eye could see the old fashioned way. Then came the kid with the electronic game, or the owner of a vegetable wagon taking inventory on a data pad similar to a miniature laptop

 _Welcome to the screwed up century,_ John thought. At least no one was looking at them funny.

John assumed them to be heading somewhere toward the center of town, but never proved the assumption true when they were met halfway. A short, thick bodied man in a dark, tan suit casually walking along the street slowed, gaped, then hurried forward.

" Miss Teyla, Mr. Lorne. And I'm assuming this must be the venerable Dr. Beckett," The man said, and bowed his head.

" Aye, that'd be me," Beckett said. " You must be Mr. Cres then."

Cres smiled brightly. " I am. Mentel Cres, assistant to Jek Grieg. He's expecting you, has been for some time, but is practically dancing about it today. Glad I ran into you, he'll be quite taken you've arrived. And with the medications we hope?"

Carson lifted a small, metal suitcase. " Aye, all right here. Synthesizin' shouldn't be too much of a hassle. You'll be inoculatin' in no time."

Cres chuckled. " Wonderful! I must say, though – if you don't think me blunt – you have an unusual way of speaking. What world are you from?"

Becket jerked his thumb over his shoulder. " Same as this lot. It's common, where we come from."

Cres nodded, then turned his gaze to the rest of the group. " Miss Teyla, everyone, make yourselves at home. I'm told trade finalization is to be at the dinner. Come Mr. Beckett, this way."

Carson held up a finger. " Oh, one moment if you would."

To John's alarm, Beckett made his way to the back of the group. He stopped two feet from John, and glared at him.

" Need you be remindin', John?"

John rolled his eyes. " No mother."

" Say it, then."

John sighed, then ticked of with his fingers, " Rest, food, no over exertion. Happy?"

Beckett smirked. " Aye. Rodney, make sure he sticks by it."

Now it was Rodney doing the eye-roll. " I'm not his mother."

" Too bad. He goes down," Carson said, pointing at John, then moved his finger to point at Rodney, " you go with him."

With that said, Carson turned and followed Cres.

To John's alarm, none of the soldiers went with him.

" Is that wise?" John asked.

" What?"

" For Carson to go unaccompanied like that. Shouldn't someone go with him?"

Rodney shrugged. " Never been a problem before."

John was all ready with an order for someone to follow Beckett, when the group began to disperse, driving home the reminder that John was not in charge, not by a long shot. It irked him a lot more than he thought it would.

" You know, just a thought, but it might not be safe having everyone wander around by themselves."

Rodney threw his head back and let out a sharp breath of exasperation. " Colonel, will you relax. This place is like one theme-park ride away from being the happiest place on earth. "

" Dr. McKay is correct," Teyla said. She and Ronon had remained. " It is quite safe. The Sriotians are very open. As you can see, they have allowed us to keep our weapons. They trust us, and have shown reason to be trusted themselves. They are good people."

" Yeah, they are," John said. " But you never know who might pop up. Wraiths, Genii... Cys."

Teyla gave him a reassuring smile. " Colonel, we are safe here. The Sriotians are quite adept at handling danger. They know of the Genii and have no care for them. They have not even heard of the Cyladrans."

" Wish that went double for us," Rodney murmured, rubbing the cast still on his arm.

" Come with us," Teyla said, " you will see."

They wandered the streets of Gen, meeting nothing but a friendly face. They passed shops selling food, clothes, devices, tools, and toys. At one point they were accosted by a group of children firing a barrage of garbled questions at them, only to run off squealing in delight when Ronon growled at the,

" They don't seem to get what it means when I do that," Ronon grunted. The runner didn't seem any happier to be here than John. Then again, the man was never particular to any place that they went to.

They stopped at a vendor and traded chocolate bars for a prismatic fruit that tasted like strawberry and kiwi. It was good stuff, not too sweet, and not even close to bitter. John sat on a nearby bench between the display window and entrance to a shop. The moment he dropped onto the bench, he realized it was going to be a while before he got up again. He arched his back until it popped, then stretched his legs out in front, crossing one foot over the other.

Sitting had become too much of a pleasure than it should have been. But like hell John wasn't going to enjoy it. He ate his fruit and observed the people going by as Ronon, Teyla, and Rodney stood doing the same.

John had to admit, it was nice not to be in a town where everyone snubbed you – then betrayed you.

A young girl in a green dress and amber cloak stepped from the store, standing just outside the threshold. In her hands was a woven basket she was rummaging through. Something fell out, a package wrapped in paper and string. She didn't even notice as she started to move on. John leaned over and grabbed the package.

" Hey, miss?"

The girl stopped and turned. Her age appeared to be around eleven or twelve, her face oval, her dark brown hair straight and tied in a pony-tail, and her eyes a deep brown.

Oddly enough, something about her face didn't register the girl as being twelve. Or maybe it was the eyes, which regarded John with an air of such melancholy seriousness that John immediately wondered if someone had just recently died in her family – someone close. At least that was what the expression made him think.

" You dropped it," he explained with a slight smile.

" Thank you sir," she said, taking the package and placing it in the basket. Her lips twitched a ghost of a smile, and she cast her gaze to the ground as she started to turn.

" You all right?" John couldn't help asking. Her head shot up, and her eyes scrutinized him a lot more closely, and much more deeply. Whatever it was she was seeing in him, it seemed to satisfy her when her visage softened and her next smile was less forced.

" Yes, I'm fine, sir," she said, curtsied, and left with amber cloak billowing and shimmering out behind her.

John sat back against the wall and sighed. Rodney plopped himself down in the space beside John. The scientist crossed his casted arm over his chest to rest the elbow of his other arm on as he finished off the fruit.

" Liking it here yet?" Rodney asked between bites.

John closed his eyes. " Sure, why not."

" That's not a definitive answer."

" Nope."

" Come on, Colonel, enjoy it. Weather's good, people aren't trying to shoot us, no wraith darts and wraiths trying to suck us dry. Live in the moment, carpe diem - seize the day... stuff like that." He took another bite, squirting juice onto Sheppard's jaw.

" Sorry," he mumbled, chewing. John just wiped the juice off with the cuff of his jacket. He opened his eyes to observe the people, and felt discomfort crawl up his spine like it was a ladder.

" Ever read _Young Goodman Brown?_ Seeing as how you seem literate Savvy I thought..."

" Colonel, I doubt these people practice Satanic rituals in the woods... or any devil/bad deity worshipping for that matter."

John, frustrated, tilted his head back until his skull touched the wall. " That's not what I meant, McKay. I'm just saying that was a happy little town too until Brown took a stroll."

" Colonel, I've been to this world plenty of times to know these people aren't up to anything or hiding anything..."

" How long had Teyla known the Genii?"

" That's different."

" How?"

Silence. John opened his eyes to see Rodney's jaw working without a response. John couldn't help a satisfied smirk.

" See?"

Rodney glared at John. " That's not fair. Trust me, Colonel, if these people were up to something we would have seen it by now. It usually doesn't take a couple of days to rear their ugly heads if they have one. You can't go dumping immediate negative judgments on people. It's rude."

John let out a long breath so that his chest deflated. " Yeah, it is. But you see where I'm coming from, right? If it isn't the people that's the problem, it's something else on the planet. There's just... always something. And it's not like it's always bad. I mean Chaya wasn't bad... _Right?"_ John stared pointedly at Rodney until the physicist shifted.

Rodney looked at his fruit, finding it suddenly interesting. " Well, she did hold back on us..."

" But she wasn't bad," John growled.

Rodney looked up, but not at John, as he internally struggled, probably for something contrite to say. Finally, he relented. " No, she wasn't. She saved our lives... and, I guess that's saying something."

" Thank you," John said. " But getting back to the point, there's always something catching us off guard. And, if you must know, I do find this a nice place, and honestly hope it stays that way."

" Then why not let yourself enjoy it?"

" Because I can't!"

" Why not!"

John didn't respond to that. Why not indeed? Because it would be the same as letting his guard down? Probably, and following that was when the big bang surprises always came.

Rodney stared at John in growing disbelief. " You don't know how, do you?"

John wanted to suddenly shrink away out of existence. He chanced a small glance at Rodney, but rather than seeing wide-eyed incredulity, John saw – to his astonishment – only sympathy.

John looked away. Rodney understood, even though he seemed to be trying to deny it.

" If it's any consolation," John said. " It's not like my heart's trying to pound out a thousand beats per minute. Actually, it's going at quite a normal rate, one even Beckett would be happy with."

Rodney, sucking the juice from the remainder of the fruit, shrugged. " Hey, it's a start."

SGASGASGASGA

The 'dinner' following a successful first synthesizing of the vaccine was a much bigger shin-dig than anticipated, mostly because it was on the same day as Helian Moon (which, from what the team could fathom was some kind of spring-time celebration before crops are planted.) Dining was held outside on the outskirts of the town, either in the fields, on blankets or at tables. The Atlantean's hosts – Grieg and the Town's head Lord Chancellor Marvis – held their feast on the south-east end of the outskirts where four long tables had been dragged, surrounded by fifteen chairs.

The food was pleasantly palatable, with meat, fruit, and funny-colored vegetables that tasted fine. But there was something about eating blue squash that made the stomach want to retaliate. Only Ronon and Rodney were completely indifferent.

Marvis held a toast. The usual " to our new acquaintanceship" deal. Everyone raised a glass in response, then raucous conversation returned. Out in the open field, music was playing from somewhere, people were dancing, children running around and screaming in delight, and couples were taking strolls or lolling on blankets.

John watched with a slight twinge of jealously. To be that relaxed he'd have to be sedated. And it wasn't like he was really expecting anything to happen, because he wasn't. It was his conditioned sub-conscience, programmed to keep him at the ready, watching his back when there was nothing to watch. Oh well, at least he wasn't being jumpy, just excessively observant.

John glanced over at Ronon and frowned at seeing the runner too engrossed in his dinner to be doing the same. John had hoped that at least Ronon – of all people – would be doing something similar. John didn't fault him for it, he just didn't want to be the only one acting cautious.

 _No, say it truthfully. Not Cautious. Paranoid._

John tossed his fork down and made to rise from his seat.

" Where d'you think you're goin' lad?"

John paused, then slowly raised his head to look at Carson standing on the other side of the table with a refilled cup in his hand. John scrunched his brow.

" For a walk. That a crime?"

Beckett shook his head. " No. But you didn't exactly clean your plate."

John looked down at the remaining blue squash, something like yellow mash-potatoes, and the stringy orange beans. He looked back at Carson pleadingly.

" Doc, seriously, I can't. You want me to keep the food down, then let me bail while the gettin's good. Not that wasn't delicious!" he quickly amended at the hurt look on many of the present ladies' faces. " Because it was. It's just, you know, I'm not used to the colors. They... um... hurt my eyes."

Rodney hissed out a chuckle. " Good one."

John elbowed him in the ribs, and Rodney yelped.

" Come on, Beckett, I'm serious."

Beckett took a breath, then released it slowly. " Aye, all right, as long as you ate _something."_

John grabbed a normal looking roll from one of the woven baskets. " A little something extra. Happy?"

" Fine."

" Is he well?" an elderly lady with silver hair (possibly Marvis' mother, John couldn't recall) asked. John winced at the question. The woman had been eying him steadily with a fair amount of concern throughout dinner, continually offering him more food periodically.

" Aye he's fine. He's had a fair bit of health troubles, but is mendin'. I'm just makin sure he _stays_ mendin'."

The kindly old lady reached forward and patted John's hand, smiling sweetly. " I thought as much, you poor child. It's a gift with me, knowing when someone is not at their finest health, and you look so thin. I should make you some of my special Gorg tea. It helps to build strength and aids the digestion."

John forced on a tight – rather painful to hold – smile. " Thanks, but I'm fine."

" Yeah," Rodney said, " that's how he usually looks even when healthy."

Another elbow to the ribs, and another yelp.

" Can it, McKay." He then completed his rise into standing. " Thanks for your concern, ma'am, but I really am fine."

Before anything else could be said, John took off.

John didn't have his P-90 – that was back at the inn where the team had taken up residence until the exchange for the generator was made tomorrow. He did have his nine-mil strapped to his thigh, and his knife. He had to hand it to the Sriotians, they weren't sticklers about who carried weapons. In fact, after striking up some small talk with one of the local law enforcers, John learned that many Sriotians carried weapons – mostly the small and concealed kind. They didn't take wraith attacks lightly, no matter how few or far between they might be. John was impressed, and thankfully the Sound of Music and Mary Poppins impressions had finally been shoved from his mind.

These people were happy without being naïve. Again, jealousy tugged at the darker recesses of John's mind.

Twilight was being pulled over the world like a shade, with stars fading into existence one by one. John breathed through his nose the mellowly sweet scent of grass, flowers, and baking things. Lamps strung up on wires between poles flickered to life, and the moment they did insects reminiscent of the space bugs that had saved John's hide from that super wraith clustered around them. Something like crickets began to chirp, but a lot more quietly than actual crickets.

It was so peaceful that John found himself observing for reasons other than keeping watch. A group of Sriotian kids were running about, tossing a hand-sized ball. The ball came directly at John, but he caught it one-handed and tossed it back. It went far, all the way to the farthest kid. John smiled in self-satisfaction. Like hell he was weak. The kids let out breaths of awe, then tossed the ball back to him, urging him to throw it as far as he could.

So the game ensued, the ball going all over the place from one set of hands to another – the goal being never to let it touch the ground. Simple enough except that there was no way of knowing who would throw the ball to whom. Plus, the game began with the group being in close proximity, then gradually spreading out, increasing the level of difficulty, all while continually moving about.

John liked this game. On getting back to Atlantis, he would have to teach it to Jinto and the other Athosian kids. They already had the various earth games down pretty tight.

When John saw the ball heading toward him next, he took a couple of steps back and nearly stumbled when his foot landed on something smooth and hard. He caught the ball all the same, but held it to turn and look at what he was standing on.

A road, a dirt-packed road, smooth in some places, but bramble-choked in others. He followed it with his gaze to the abyss-black darkness between the trees of the eastern forest. He heard the children come running up behind him, calling for him to throw the ball. Their footfalls died at the edge of the road, along with their voices. He glanced over his shoulder at the gaggle and pointed toward the trees.

" Where does this road go?"

A small girl of about seven, chewing the tip of her braided hair, took a step back. " To the monsters."

John's heart plummeted. _Ah crap, no!_ " Monsters?"

The tall blond boy nodded while keeping his eyes fixed to the woods. " Yeah, something like that. Really bad wild animals, actually. We're not supposed to go in there."

" People don't come out if they go in," said a brunette boy.

A brunette girl rolled her eyes. " Yes they do. You just think they don't because they're going far away and don't come back for a while."

" No, they don't! I heard some men talking about it."

" Sometimes you can hear the monsters," the little seven year old piped. " If you're real quiet you can."

" But you don't know where this road goes?" John asked again. Several kids shrugged, others shook their heads.

" You go down that road," said another blond boy, " and Diavante gets you. My brother said."

" Yeah, to keep you out!" a girl of around eight.

" No, it happened to a cousin of ours," another girl of nine. " He went in because he thought it was a short cut, and we never saw him again."

" That's because he moved!" an older boy.

The children started arguing, shouting above eachother to get their two-cents worth in, or tell of legends they heard. John tuned them out. Mysterious road, dark woods - never promising.

 _Just don't go down it John. Then you'll be none the wiser, and nothing'll happen._

John had had his fill of monsters. Let them stay in the dark where they belonged. He turned his back on the trees, and resumed tossing the ball to the kids.

TBC...


	11. Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Sheppard?

" John. Jo-ohn."

John forced his eyelids apart. Menk's shadow-marred face grinned down at him.

" No time for rest, Master Sheppard. The eraks are hungry."

A shrieking howl ripped the perfect silence, shredding John's hearing, right at his head.

John snapped his eyes open, then snapped his body upright in the bed. White moonlight put every object into sharp black and white contrast like a Cubist's masterpiece. No faces hovering body-less and phantasmal, just shadow layering on shadow.

The shrieking howl lingered in John's memory so tangible his eyes went immediately to the window on his left. John flung back the knit blanket and crept in a crouch with spine curved to the diamond divided pane of glass. Outside it was more black and white with a clear sky and larger than average, blindingly white moon.

Being a second floor room of a two-story inn, John had an unobstructed view of the town, field, forest, and hills.

 _And me without a camera._

There wasn't much he couldn't see, and was quickly satisfied to find no small black shapes darting in and out of the woods or tearing across the field. The howl was gone, drifting back into John's memory where it belonged. Satisfied with his lack of finding anything, he moved back to the bed and let himself fall onto the down mattress. He didn't bother covering back up even with the cool air brushing his neck and making his flesh goose-up. Sleep had left the building, SOB that it always was.

Beckett was going to be pissed.

With a groaning sigh, John pushed himself up and back out of bed. The dreams weren't a constant, but when they came, they came with back-up in the form of adrenaline. He pulled on his socks, then his boots, jacket, vest, 9-mil holster around his thigh, and P-90 clipped onto the vest. He stepped out of the small room and into the hallway, only to stop at the next door down on hearing the tell-tale clacking of fingers on a lap-top keyboard.

John grinned, leaned against the frame, and softly knocked.

The typing stopped. A few seconds later, John heard grumbling, and the door was flung open. Rodney, stiff, suddenly sagged.

" Oh, you."

John lifted an eyebrow. " _You_? That how you greet everyone or is it something specially reserved for lil' old me?"

" You, obviously. What do you want?" Rodney then looked John over. " And why are you dressed? Armed? What the hell are you up to?"

John narrowed his eyes at McKay. " Crap, McKay, you're worse than Beckett. Can't sleep so I'm going for a walk."

" Uh-huh. Armed?"

John adjusted his P-90. Funny how it had taken on the role of security blanket, but like he was going to tell McKay that.

" Yes, armed, in case wraith decide to pop up for a little midnight snack. Besides, the way those kids were talking about that forest, I wouldn't go out weaponless even if I was wearing that personal shield that nearly killed you. Precaution, McKay," he tugged on the weapon, " never leave home without it."

" Precaution? Colonel, going out with one weapon is precaution. Going out armed to the teeth is paranoia. You really going for a walk, or going for a walk to check and maintain the perimeter?"

John leaned ever so slightly to the side to direct his gaze at the lap-top resting on the still-made bed. " McKay, you are so not one to talk."

" At least thinking doesn't require me being armed and liable to blow someone's head off. Maybe you should go bug Beckett until he shoves a sleeping pill down your throat."

John glanced down at his feet. " I'm sick of pills. Natural sleep or nothin', McKay. If a twenty minute stroll doesn't have me passing out on my own terms, then screw it. I'll just let my body suffer until it shuts down whether my brain likes it or not."

Rodney scowled at that. " Jeez, Colonel. Someone trying to steal your score for most infirmary visits?" Rodney pointed a stiff finger at John's face. " If Beckett finds out, he's going to lock you in the brig for the rest of your life... and take me down with you because for some _odd_ reason you always feel you must involve me in your quests of self-destruction. And it's usually through me Beckett finds out, then I'm in the dog-house for having to be weaseled and threatened for information..."

John raised a hand and lightly patted the air. " Chill, McKay. It's a freakin' walk to remedy what Beckett's always hounding me about. Twenty minutes. If that doesn't work, I'll bash myself over the head with my own gun if it'll make you happy."

Rodney, rocking on his heels, sniffed. " It will, thank you."

" I was kidding."

" You get caught, I'll do the whacking for you."

John shook his head. " Whatever, McKay." He turned and headed down the hall.

" Twenty minutes!" McKay called.

" Twenty," John promised, raising two fingers in the air.

SGASGASGASGASGA

The sky was taking on a light indigo shade when John stepped outside and headed down the streets to the edge of town. A subtle breeze was blowing, caressing the back of John's neck, neither overly cool or warm. The stringed lamps were gone, but the space-bug cousins were still hovering over the grass and clustering around the street-lights.

Wet grass crunched under John's booted feet, putting a shine to his shoes with dew. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The air felt good, really good, refreshing good, in his lungs, like a cool drink of water after having been thirsty for too long. The uncomfortable pulsating in his skull he'd forced himself to put up with mellowed into a forgettable throb. Being in this place, on this world, it was doing something... good. John wasn't about to call it a life-altering reversal of his state of mind. It was mostly just a breather, a change, alternating sea-tainted alien air with pine-scented alien air, and having more space for solitude.

He was too easily located on Atlantis. Not that he wanted to live the life of a recluse, but there was something claustrophobic about being in constant contact with just about half the population of Atlantis. Even ditching his ear piece didn't ensure a few hours of personal time. So went the life of a military commander. It made the quiet times in his life all that more potent, so much so that he internally shrank at the prospect of putting that ear piece back in his ear. He would do it, eventually, and think nothing of it afterward. Right now, he basked in its lack of presence and knowing that it wouldn't crackle on anytime soon.

Talk about having space. Even his brain was being given a break. He and the team were supposed to head back today, but John considered requesting an extra day, for himself. The rest could go back if they wanted, but he was leaning toward staying to see if he could reach a point where he didn't wake up with a pounding heart, and could leave his gun behind when he went for walks. Still nothing life changing, just breaking newly formed habits.

Really, there was no such thing as normalcy, but that didn't stop John from longing for it.

John wasn't paying attention to the time, or his direction. But direction existed on two planes, so even when one didn't have a destination at the front of their mind, the back routed out a destination all the same. When John finally came back into awareness of his surroundings, he found himself moving toward the packed, ill-used road.

He paused. There was a wagon on that road, being pulled by a Galamimus like creature with a coat of short copper fur rather than scales or leathery skin. A silver haired and silver bearded old man was handling the reins, and next to him was a much shorter person in a shimmering amber cloak. John knew that cloak.

He moved forward toward the road. His motion attracted the attention of the cloaked form, who turned her head to regard John with eyes far older than the face they belonged too. Those same melancholy eyes brimming with a finality no child of twelve should ever have to possess. She dipped her head in a small nod of acknowledgment at John, then turned her head to face the road and the black-hole darkness the wagon was trundling toward.

John immediately wanted to rush forward and shout warnings not to go in there, as though they were walking into an open mouth they didn't see, to be swallowed and joining the ranks of urban legend victim. Instead, he stepped onto the road to watch the wagon get swallowed.

The urban-legends of children were not fact, and it wasn't John's place to say whether or not people knew what they were doing when going into that forest. Unless the danger manifested as gun shots or monsters, John couldn't go tearing off into an alien wood shrieking like a psycho just because dark woods were scary and kids told good ghost stories.

He felt bad for the girl. Whatever her destination, her fate, it was going to be bad. Looks said it all.

John turned. Twenty minutes were up, past twenty more likely, and right now John was far less enthusiastic about what McKay would have to say than Beckett.

Cold struck John in the spine, spreading through him along his backbone frosty and fast. He couldn't even gasp when he fell to his knees, then his chest. He knew what was happening, but terror wasn't given the chance to strangle him when he blacked out.

SGASGASGASGA

Creak, creak, creak, thump. Creak, creak, creak, thump...

 _Shut up, shut up, shut up!_

But it wouldn't. The noise, and jostling, was a constant. John's body ached down to his bone marrow, yet a far more familiar and uncomfortable pain clustered at the center of his spine. Now was the time to wake up, and his fear screamed at him to do so.

 _Open open open!_ Consciousness came too fast, like a slug to the face. His eyes snapped open to a wildly spinning world like green, brown, and white paint smearing together. His stomach back-flipped and he was forced to shut his eyes again with a groan.

The creak/thump stopped abruptly.

" He's awake." The voice was low, muffled, and nearly imperceptible to John's foggy brain.

" Right on time. I like that." That voice sounded female. " Shoot him again."

John's eyes snapped open, and his body bolted upright.

" No!"

The cold hit him even more painful than the first strike, and he was out before he fell.

Creak.

It was different this time. No rhythm, and a lot more low key. It was the first thing John became aware of, the second being his rapidly thumping heart. The pain in his back was so sharp that he arched, groaning with gritted teeth. His hands curled on something hard, rough, and gritty.

 _Oh gosh no! Not again!_

He was pretty sure that if he just kept his eyes closed, he could buy himself a few more minutes of time in delusion-ville and pretend all this wasn't really happening. But John never could ignore his instincts, and for the sake of hoping to find a way out of his predicament, he opened his eyes.

His ceiling was a tangle of branches with a gray sky filling in the gaps. Gusting breezes made the leaves flutter and the branches sway, which explained the timid creaking.

John sucked in a deep breath of air tasting faintly wet. _Oh thank goodness._ He was outside, a difference, a start. Maybe he was overreacting.

 _Like hell._ He tried to sit up only to have the world pinwheel and the pain drive the invisible knife deeper. He cried out and dropped back against the hard surface, writhing.

" Give it a moment," a deep voice growled. John forced his eyelids apart, hoping and praying it had been Ronon, and that the man just had a cold.

Luck had abandoned John. The face peering at him was hidden behind a thick black beard, and the pale and angular face framed by long black hair coming past the shoulder.

John's heart shot up another inhumanly impossible rate. He began panting, his muscles tightening until he quaked, and acidic liquid seared into his throat.

 _No! Not again!_

He was panicked enough to ignore the pain and tried to scramble away only to have his back smack into some sort of hard, flat obstruction. The bearded man reached out indifferently and grabbed the front of John's vest.

" No time for this," the man grumbled. He yanked John from the wagon as though he were nothing more than a sack. John hit the ground and began struggling against the grip. He was dragged across the dirt and moss, and no matter how deep he dug his heels into the that dirt, he couldn't even get the guy to stumble. He was worse than Ronon in terms of excessive strength.

They didn't go far, just a few feet. The bearded man jerked John to his knees, keeping an iron grip on his vest, and shoving the barrel of a Cyladran stunner in his chest over his heart.

" You try anything, you get it to the heart. Never a good thing."

John was looking up at the face that was very two fangs away from being Dracula's visage. The man's clothes were more reminiscent of something Ronon might wear – a dingy longcoat either gray brown or just exceedingly dirty, dingy shirt, brown ragged trousers, and a belt full of weapons – mostly very wicked looking knives.

Someone cleared their throat, someone other than Vlad the Impaler towering over John. John snapped his head around and up into the wrinkled, glaring face of a woman of sixty going on seventy. A pony-tail of long silver hair was draped over a silver clad shoulder. In fact the whole woman's appearance was nothing but gray, say for her pasty white face. Her robe, shirt, pants, slippered feet, and belt sporting an array of blinking, electronic tools of the kind only Rodney would know how to use. Even her eyes were silver-gray. Were there a more clearer patch of sky, she would have vanished into it.

She gave John a tight, forced smile. " Hi, nice to see you finally awake." Her voice dripped so much sarcasm even Rodney would have drowned in it. She dropped her smile then grabbed John's jaw to force his head up higher.

" Looking a little pale," she said as though assessing a piece of furniture – or an animal. She released his jaw to squeeze down his arm. " Good muscle tone, I suppose." She pressed her fingers against his neck. " Pulse fast." She grabbed his hair and pulled his head back so that he was forced to look up. The tight smile was back.

" Scared?" Her tone was wheedling.

John didn't even know the woman's name and already he longed for his knife to slice her hand from her wrist.

" Try pissed," he growled. The woman's response was to start twisting John's head. His neck creaked, strained, and his hands shot up on their own accord to try and pull the woman's hands from him.

The woman's grip was immovable. She was viciously strong for a withering old broad.

" Shut up," she sneered, then released John's head with a jerk. John rubbed his neck tentatively and reacted the only way he could thus far – glare.

The woman began snapping her fingers in that annoying act of impatience Rodney sometimes utilizes. " Bring me his weapon, I want to take a look."

Another man appeared, this one square-face, beardless, with short spiky brown hair that made John's hair look tidy. He also wore a longcoat, plus a dirty jacket beneath that. Apparently, this woman hired only _Mad Max_ rejects as goons.

Goon two handed the old bat John's P-90. She looked it over, and John flinched when her perusal had the gun pointed his way.

" Projectile weaponry," she said, then handed the weapon back to goon two. He then handed her the 9 mil and she repeated the process.

" Same." She tossed the gun back to goon two, then snapped her finger.

" Get him up."

Vlad yanked John to his feet. Damn, these guys were strong! John swayed when the world did another spin around his person. He probably would have fallen if it hadn't been for Vlad maintaining his hold. John shook his head clear, then returned to glaring at the old bat.

" Menk send you?" He asked. " Couldn't drop by himself so sent his grandma?"

The old woman held small palm-sized device and was tapping its screen. " I know no Menk. Stop babbling." She sighed. " Slight crack in the ribs, healing though. Other than that, relatively healthy." She then dropped her hand and blew out a sharp breath. " You really couldn't expend your efforts to bring me the big man?"

Vlad shrugged. " You said it didn't matter who we took as long as it wasn't the woman, the scientist, or the one that talked funny. He was outside, right by the woods. Easy snatch."

The woman gave John a disgusted once-over. " I guess he'll have to do, then. The big man would have been better. What's your name, alien?"

John smirked darkly. " Last name Dover, first name Ben."

The old lady smirked back, then leaned in toward John's face. " Your vest says Sheppard." Her hand suddenly shot out and cold, dry fingers wrapped around his throat, squeezing. John gagged and choked, trying to pry the woman's relentless fingers from his neck.

" Young man, I have no time for this filth. If you wish to be difficult, then be difficult, I don't care. Just... pay attention to what I have to say."

She released John and he gasped in a ragged breath, coughing. The woman turned and began pacing back and forth in front of him like a caged panther, robe billowing like the ripples of an activated stargate.

" You're in a bad position, young man," she said. " And if you wish to get out of it, then you'll have to do me a favor."

John rubbed his bruised throat but said nothing. Anything he had to say was bound to commit him to something unpleasant.

" If you wish to live, and see your friends again... and wish your friends to live, then you must comply."

John's heart skipped and his eyes rounded over. He attempted to jerk free from Vlad, only to be jerked back. " What did you do with my team!"

The woman snorted. " Nothing. Too many to deal with at the extreme moment. At a later time, perhaps. Here is the situation; to live, to keep your friends alive, then someone else must die. Simple as that. And you need to do it. No questions asked, just one shot, and then you're free to go. If not..." She stopped and smiled at him, the panther eying the meat. " Use your imagination."

John gaped and just stared at the woman for several surreal seconds. The woman cleared her throat impatiently.

" Those are the terms. Now I suggest..."

" What the hell!" he barked. " You zapped me and dragged me out to the middle of nowhere for an assassination job! You threaten me and my friends... What the crap! I mean come on! You've got two goons right here..." he glanced over his shoulder, at the wagon being pulled by another woolley-mammoth horse, and a third man sitting in the driver's seat. " Another one right there." He looked back, scathingly, at the old woman. " But you kidnap me to do your dirty work! Why, don't like the sight of blood? Or you just lazy?"

The woman regarded him with heavy-lidded eyes. " Young man, I have no intentions of explaining myself to you. Do this, you get to live. What's so hard to understand about that, huh? My reasons are my reasons – and none of your business. Life or death, young man, your choice."

John couldn't help another gape, and his only coherent thought was that if he survived this – whatever _this_ was – he was never stepping off world again. Or at least never taking solitary walks.

The woman rolled here eyes. " We have no time for this! Just... take him to the spot. Get him to fire his weapon, I don't care how. Accident's as good as the real thing, I just want her dead! Now take him!" she shrieked, then turned with a twirl of her robe and strode stiffly away into the woods.

John opened his mouth to spit a nasty retort when something hard struck him over the head. Once again, he became guest of the black void.

TBC...


	12. Little Yellow Riding Hood

Little Yellow Riding Hood

Now this was different. John awoke to a pounding headache rather than a throbbing spine. He opened his eyes, tensing at the ready to being blinded by the gray light of day. He was met with darkness.

Blinking rapidly, John pushed himself up onto his elbows that sunk into soft soil. Darkness was rich around him, shadow on shadow, with a midnight blue sky scarred by the black branches of trees. Creaks and clacks were the only sounds.

John's breath caught in his throat. This was bad. He scrambled to his feet, feeling the increase of weight on his shoulder, and lifted his hand to his P-90. Okay, that was good. He reached down to the holster on his thigh and felt the grip of his 9 mil. Even better. At least he didn't have to suffer the naked feeling of being unarmed.

John grabbed his P-90 and brought it up with the flashlight on. It cut through the darkness on a direct path, dancing off the gnarled tree trunks, shrubs, and loam mounds. The ground was a multi-colored carpet of moss, dead leaves, and phosphorescent mushrooms where ever the light landed.

No one was around – no wagon, no goons waiting to pressure him or whatever into firing at some intended target. John was completely alone.

He wasn't naïve as to see this as another plus. He swung his P-90 around in a slow 360 degree circle, pointing it up and down. Several feet ahead, the light landed on hard, clear compact earth – a road.

 _What the hell is going on?_ John swallowed, and slowly backed away from the road as though slinking away from a pissed rattler. Psycho chick had wanted him here, so it only stood to reason that he needed to get away from here.

John took three steps back when he stopped. Death threats against himself he could deal with. Death threats against his team gave him pause for more consideration. Whether the old bat knew Menk or not didn't matter. Her goons had Cyladran stunners – silent and painful - which meant either the old bat and her thugs were Cyladrans from a different faction, or simply had their technology. That technology made them exceedingly dangerous, and despite John's faith in his team at being able to handle themselves, he wasn't going to risk anything.

 _How_ he was going to avoid risking anything, he didn't know. Hopefully, the intended target was dangerous, and would come after John, forcing John to defend himself. No way would he kill in cold blood.

His next pondering – how were the thugs going to force him to shoot if they weren't around?

John's heart was already pounding, but found a way to step it up a notch. In turn, the light began twitching and dancing spasmodically to his quaking hands. Confusion was like a vice on his thinking, reverting his thoughts back to the Mykote village, and he doubted refusing a drink would prove the answer to his dilemma.

The wind touched him like groping fingers, brushing across his neck, leaking into his jacket and shirt to slither and ooze down his back. It made his skin want to crawl off his bones, creating waves of numb rolling from his spine, across each bar of his ribs, and over his heart. A branch groaned, clacking twigs. Leaves whispered like a thousand voices too far away for him to find, and too quiet because they didn't want him to hear, because they were laughing at him.

John grimaced. He was becoming delirious. Something clattered from a distance – a stick breaking from the mother branch to go tumbling down – and John's heart slammed so hard it snatched his breath away.

No, not delirious, just undeniably terrified. History was playing at being cruel, and repeating itself after only weeks. Only difference was, its masterpiece was perfected, since all that was needed was for the lights to be turned off.

 _John, welcome to every horror movie earth has ever made. Now start running._

But John couldn't. It wasn't that he was frozen in fear, he just didn't have any place to go. Stumbling around in a darkened wood had yet to do anyone any good. Then again, neither did standing around.

John had no idea what to do.

Something snapped, and John swung his weapon around, another heart-slam interrupting his panting breaths. Crap, he hated this. Hated, hated, hated...

Another snap, John whirled around again. A low rumble. Thunder? Another snap.

 _Get him to shoot, no matter what it takes._ John put a centimeter of space between his finger and the trigger. Sweat dewing on his forehead ran like rain down his face and neck, more down his sides. Creak, crack, snap, groan – the woods weren't that quiet anymore.

There came another low rumble, not even remotely resembling thunder this time. John heard the sound all around him but felt it at his back. He tensed enough to shatter.

 _Don't shoot, don't shoot, don't shoot... it's what they want._

Steeling himself, John did another abrupt turn.

A mass darker than the darkness burst from the shadows and rammed into him. The impact came to his chest and shoulder, sending him hard to the ground. The air rushed from his lungs, but fright sucked that air back in. He scrambled to his feet and jerked around with the P-90 raised.

" Show yourself you son of a...!"

Another impact, and this time he fell on his chest. He didn't waste time giving in to being dazed. He was back on his feet after one second, backing away with gun pointing in all directions. Something was moving out there, he could hear its heavy breathing, he just couldn't move fast enough to get the light on it.

It struck again, sending him spinning to the soft earth and nearly losing his gun. This time he had to take a moment to wait for the spinning to stop. Something warm trailed down his jaw and neck from his stinging face, and he reached up to touch the wetness. Holding his fingers to his light, he saw blood.

" Oh no."

Eraks? Could eraks move that fast, be that stealthy? He wouldn't hold it past them, but it had to take a lot of specific training to keep from mauling as a pack.

But they were noisy. Eraks howled before and during the hunt, and John had heard no howls.

It couldn't be any natural beast. The psycho lady wanted him alive to kill another. Kind of a waste if some wild animal killed him before the job was done. Surly by now one of the goons would make an appearance to keep the beast from stopping what was supposed to happen.

It was logical to conclude that this was happening on purpose. John cringed. He had to keep from firing.

An idea popped into his head. Clipping the gun onto his vest, he pulled out his knife and positioned himself into a fighting stance with arms hanging loose at his sides. He strained his hearing deep into the silence to the lesser noises beneath the usual noises of groaning wood and wind rushing passed his ears. He heard the near silent crunch of dried moss and dead leaves.

" Here kitty, kitty, kitty," he muttered. Something whuffed as though sniffing the air, and following that was a low, gutteral purr. Something about that purr sounded just too unnervingly happy. John tightened his grip on the knife.

There came a scrape, then thud, then the pounding of feet. John twisted his body around and lashed out with the knife. He was shoved to the ground, but not before he heard the deep, bone-vibrating howl of pain. John rolled and pushed himself back to his feet, clutching a bleeding shoulder. He wasn't up for more than three heart beats when pain exploded across his back, sending him arching and screaming to his knees.

The next collision came from the side, and on falling he heard the tell-tale crack and felt the agony of breaking ribs. He hit the ground, sprawled, panting, and didn't get up.

 _I won't shoot, I won't shoot, I won't shoot..._

" I'm not gonna shoot anyone!" His voice was harsh and cracking, but convicted. He wouldn't do it, he couldn't. He couldn't give into demands. First this, then something else, and something else, always with his team's lives being the bargaining chip to get him to do other's dirty work. He couldn't allow that to happen. So what if he died, at least his team was safe from being used against him.

To finalize his resolve, John pushed through the pain of his body to remove the P-90 and toss it from reach, then again to his 9 mil. He held on to his knife, just to have some hope and salvage a possible future alive.

Without the light, he couldn't see anything except as black shapes. He saw movement, something large lumbering toward him. His heart made a B-line for his throat, and he shrank back, tensing until he trembled, readying his knife. The shape filled his vision with no details to show for it. Something gripped his wrist hard enough for the bones to grate together. Another paw or hand or whatever ripped the knife from his own hand. It didn't release John after that but began dragging him across the moss and leaves. Several feet later his arm was released. Seconds later, the light of his P-90 flashed wildly about the forest, revealing the pact road inches from John's face.

A heavy weight pressed on John's back – a foot, a large foot by the feel, pushing down on him between the shoulder blades. Four sharp prongs poked into his neck.

 _Prongs? Claws?_ John shivered. It was final, this was no erak. He could see the light of the P-90 casting a small circle on the ground beside him. No way in hell could eraks be trained to use a gun.

With his ear pressed to the ground, John could hear his own heart pounding, and his hollow, ragged breaths.

" W-who are you?" he rasped. His answer was another guttural purr, and the increase of pressure on his back. He winced, biting back an utterance of pain. Breathing was becoming an unpleasant chore.

" _What_ are you?" he snarled between clenched teeth.

He heard the heavy breathing, felt the hot breath on his face, smell its rotten garbage stench. He rolled his eyes to the side to see the colorless, oddly shaped mass that had to be a head. Something moved in front of that head – a hand? Fingers? All long and sharp.

" Ssshhhhhh."

Cold filled John.

Minutes passed, the long agonizing kind. John closed his eyes and swallowed against a dry throat. A plan, he needed a plan. Any plan. He begged himself for a plan. But it was hard to think when it was hard to breathe, and it was hard to breathe since his chest had less room to expand. He tried to move and buck the foot off, and couldn't even squirm an inch.

His hands were free though. Since his body couldn't dislodge the foot, he wasn't even going to try to use his hands. Instead, he dug into the reachable pockets of his vest for anything to use.

Then he heard something, something he couldn't describe at first. Yet as it grew louder, closing the distance, he found the sound reminded him of something. A creak, squeak, and thump, constant, over and over.

A wagon.

The victim was coming. The creature standing on him purred, and let out a breathy, throaty chuckle.

John gulped and increased the speed of his search by just pulling stuff out and tossing it aside. Power bar, water purifying tablets, emergency blanket pack, swiss-army knife...

 _Swiss army knife!_ John would have laughed if he knew it wouldn't hurt.

The wagon trundled and squeaked closer, and John could see a circle of light swinging back and forth, a single lamp not even strong enough to illuminate the passengers of the wagon.

John tugged the tiny blade free. He probably only had one chance. The moment he cried out a warning to the wagon, he would either be crushed or shot. Unless he could get the cut just right.

He reached out behind him as far as his shoulder would let him, turning his arm against straining muscles to be able to bend his elbow. The pressure of the foot on his back guided his aim. It would be a crooked aim, but crooked didn't matter if he hit his target.

The wagon was closer, he could hear the heavy breathing of the animal pulling it. Gritting his teeth and gripping the knife, John thrust his hand as hard as he could. The knife plunged into leathery flesh, going deeper and deeper. John then pulled the knife across the ankle – the Achilles tendon.

The scream shattering the perfect quiet was deep, like thunder from lightening only a mile away. It tore into John's ears, stabbing his brain, rattling his bones and organs. The foot was off his back in less than a heartbeat, and John heard the thud and tearing of soil and leaves from a body thrashing around in complete agony.

John sucked in a deep breath that galvanized his cracked ribs. But he was far beyond pain, fueled by fear and the natural chemicals it forced the body to produce. He pushed quickly to his feet, twisting around and grabbing the fallen P-90. He didn't waste time assessing the creature's physical attributes, just fired at the mass of scaled, leathery flesh mingled with what looked to be clothes. The thing screamed, then bounded out of sight of the light and into the darkness.

It wouldn't go far, not with a sliced Achilles tendon. Neither would it come back wounded, not if it was smart.

John lowered his gun, then dropped it all together. The chemicals of fear leaked from his body along with the blood of his face, shoulder, and back. He could feel it spread in the material of his shirt and pants, sliding down his skin slow and hot. The warmth of his blood wasn't being helpful in keeping away the cold. Shivering, he fell to his knees when they turned to jelly. He didn't stay too long in that position either, and immediately fell to his side. He heard the wagon grinding to a stop, and the animal snort in protest. The light of the lamp came into the corner of his vision like a rising sun, but before that sun was even up, the darkness shoved it back.

Once more, to John's growing annoyance, the void had dragged him back.

SGASGASGASGA

Motion, and it was pissing John's stomach off. Shaking, clattering, jostling like a plane in turbulence without the pilot's calm, falsely cheery voice telling every one that it would be okay. It was also noisier with creaks and clatters, whuffs, snorts, and crunches – plus a gentle breeze touching John's face smelling faintly wet like the wind before a storm.

John opened his eyes, a process a lot more painful than it should have been. Branch-scarred gray sky – that seemed about right, right? Except the last he recalled, it had been night, and some misshapen lump had been stepping on him. There was a wagon, making similar sounds that he was hearing now...

John tried to sit up but didn't get an inch before pain raced through him in a screaming torrent. His cry was a poorly strangled attempt that died in his throat as he dropped back down. Bright, nauseating stars marred his vision.

" I don't think you should move."

A face moved into John's line of sight. He knew that face, but not in the way that he could place a name to it. The girl hovering over him wore a kindly smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. The eyes, that's what John remembered. Melancholy and beyond her years. The girl at the store, riding the wagon of doom into the forest of nightmares where a beast waited...

John, without thinking, tried to move again. Ironically enough, it was worse the second time around, and he sucked in his breath through clenched teeth. The girl's brow lifted in concern.

" I _told_ you not to move."

John almost laughed. Now that sounded like a twelve year old.

" Yeah, my bad," John croaked, and coughed. " Where the hell am I?"

" My wagon." She fell silent for a moment, her mouth twisting in the awkward action of a shy preteen. Then she brightened as though with a sudden realization. " Thirsty?" She reached out behind her and brought a metal canteen into view.

John tweaked a small smile. " Very."

She uncapped the canteen then assisted John by supporting his head when he lifted it. He held the canteen himself in one unsteady hand. The water wasn't exactly cold, but it wasn't like his parched throat cared. When he finished with a relieved sigh, the girl gently lowered his head back onto the wooden wagon floor.

" Thanks," he breathed.

" Feel any better?" she asked.

John attempted moving his shoulder, and suffered for it. " Ah crap! Not really."

The girl winced sympathetically. " Thought as much. It should pass, though. I think you're mostly just soar. Except your ribs, those are cracked. The cuts weren't really that deep but they were long and bleeding a lot. Although the ones on your back Bren had to stitch. But Bren's really good with the stitches. He makes them small, so you'll hardly know they're there. The rest we just bandaged."

John pulled a breath through his nose to test the expansion limit on his ribcage. He felt the pressure of a bandage around his chest, and his breath caught when that bandage pushed against him. He exhaled sharply with a cough.

" You should rest some more," the girl said. " It'll help. We still have a long ways to go, and stops aren't exactly frequent, not out here."

John twitched his head in a nod, minimizing any further aches. The girl gave him an awkward smile. Everything about her was very twelve year old, except those eyes...

" My name's Krissa, by the way."

John closed his own eyes. Jostling aside, he could have slept through an earthquake right now. " John, John Sheppard."

" Glad to meet you, Mr. Sheppard. And save you. I hate seeing people hurt..."

The rest of what Krissa said became garbled. John drifted off, this time voluntarily.

John awoke to the same time of day, with the same gray sky overhead. Screwing pain, John forced himself to sit up. It might not have been excruciating this time around, but it was a struggle. He gripped the rim of the driver's seat, and with a grimace and grunt, hauled himself into a sitting position. Once finally achieved, he leaned panting against the backboard of the seat.

" Mr. Sheppard!" Krissa's child-like voice was high-pitch with alarm. She scrambled over the seat to crouch before John in the wagon bed. " Mr. Sheppard I am so sorry I didn't know you were awake or I would have helped you..."

John shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. " It's all right, it's cool, I just woke up. Got a little tired of wood digging into me." John rolled his stiff shoulder. " I think I'm even more bruised than when you found me. How long was I out?"

" Since yesterday."

John widened his eyes. " Yesterday!"

Krissa flashed an apologetic smile. " Yeah. You were really tired. I couldn't even wake you for supper. And you're coming down with a fever, which doesn't surprise me with everything you went through..." as she spoke, she pulled a small hand-held device very reminiscent of Rodney's favorite scanning toy, and held it before John. It was also very – and uncomfortably – similar to what the old silver-haired bat had used to asses his physical condition. John tensed.

" Nothing serious though. In fact it's gone down..." Krissa went on.

" What is that?" John asked, fighting the urge to shrink away.

" What, this?" She raised the device. " Just a bio-scanner. Checks for broken bones, diseases, things like that. Here, give me your hand."

John held out his left hand and Krissa moved the device to hover several inches over it. Readings scrolled on either side of a black screen depicting a perfect X-ray of John's hand – bones, veins and all. He could even see the blood pulsing.

" Sweet," John said smiling, bending his fingers, mesmerized by the movement of bone and muscle. Now here was a toy Beckett would never stop playing with. " That's freakin' cool."

Krissa switched the device off and stowed it back in the pocket of her amber cloak. She gave John a bewildered look. " You've never seen one before?"

" Well, until the last couple of days, not really. I mean we have something similar where I come from, but nothing even remotely that small."

" Well, they are kind of rare. I got mine for my twelfth birthday. It's from my cousin – he's a doctor. Didn't want me taking a journey without one. You hungry?"

Why realization of hunger never came until asked about, John would never know. Now that he was made aware, his stomach growled loud enough to attract unwanted attention – or at least to John that's how it sounded.

He winced. " Well, apparently, yes, I am."

Krissa smiled. " Well of course. You haven't had a chance to eat. Here." She pulled a satchel toward her and rummaged through it until she pulled out some dried strips of meat in a cloth and a few pieces of that colorful fruit. She set them out between her and John on a brown square of material, and set the canteen beside them.

" We'll pretend it's an outdoor lunch, minus the soft grass, of course." She handed him one of the fruit.

" Where we come from," he said, taking the fruit, " we call that a picnic."

Krissa tapped the elderly wagon driver on the shoulder and handed him a strip of the meat. " You come from Atlantis... or did before something happened to it. Right?" she asked.

John eyed her uncertainly before taking a bite. " Yeah."

Krissa picked up on the sudden change of John's tone, and pursed her lips. " My father is a town official. Most of his conversations have been about your people. He's been really excited about your visits."

John relaxed, and felt a tad guilty about tensing up in the first place. " Oh. Sorry, it's just..."

" I know. You can't trust everyone in the stars." She fell silent, but not the uneasy silence of a shy girl. This one was far more poignant, more thoughtful, sending the girl deeper within herself, adding years without altering a single feature. " I never thanked you for saving us, by the way."

John, having taken a bite of fruit, paused in chewing. " You knew?" He'd thought that thing ran off before the wagon's arrival.

Krissa looked down at her hands, twisting a strip of meat in her fingers. " Yeah."

Bren, the old man, glanced over his shoulder and gave Krissa a stern look, clearing his throat. She looked up at him, then back to her hands with a sigh.

" You've met Savine."

John squinted. " Who?"

Krissa lifted her hand and gently touched the tips of her fingers to John's throat. " Does that hurt?"

John had completely forgotten about his neck, what with nearly being mauled by something a lot worse than a crazy old lady with Superman strength and all. His own hand went to the tenderized flesh and massaged.

" Not really." He cocked an eyebrow thoughtfully. " That lady, the mental chick with the gorilla grip? That Savine?"

Krissa went back to twisting the meat until it was shredded. " Yeah. Savine Halessa. S-She's always doing that, kidnapping people and getting them to kill for her. And it's not like she really needs anyone to do it, she just likes having a body to pin the blame on so it doesn't land on her. Everyone knows it, we just can't prove it. Mostly because the people she takes usually end up dead, so don't talk. My cousin – my other cousin – Dyel, she's been after him for years. He actually had to leave the planet. Still no proof it was her, though. Don't know why." She looked up at John sadly, but it was a controlled sadness that held the tears back. " I'm really sorry she took you, John. She's kind of... off, in her mind."

John scowled and snorted. " _Off_? You call that off? That's like calling Hannibal Lecture off."

Krissa scrunched her brow. " Who?"

" Never mind. _Off_. Sorry, but that one little word doesn't cut it." His hand went back to his throat where the feel of gripping fingers lingered.

Krissa smirked. " I was just being polite. My mother would be angry if I used the word I'm really thinking of."

John chuckled. " The word I'm thinking of isn't exactly appropriate, either. Not for kids your age. So why does she want you dead?"

Krissa shrugged one shoulder. " I'm competition, I guess."

" Competition for what?"

" A position on Diavante's staff."

 _Diavante_. That name rang a bell, but a very small bell that did little except plague his mind with noisy familiarity. " Diavante?"

" Yes, a very renowned scientist on our world, the most brilliant yet."

 _Rodney would beg to differ._ " Brilliant, huh?"

" Beyond imagination, or at least that's what most people say. He's reclusive. He doesn't like people being able to reach him whenever they want. But he is very for the expansion of science. Every five years, he invites people from all over the stars to come visit his home and participate in a contest. This contest determines who will fill available positions on his staff. Whoever invents an item of great use – one that creates a demand on the market – that's who fills the available space. Savine already has a position, held it for years but... " Krissa shook her head with her lips pressed in a thin, straight line. " She's worried about something. She was very against my coming, but Diavante sent a personal invitation. Kind of hard to be ignored when you're the youngest person to join the inventor's guild. Plus there's no turning down an invite from Diavante. Too great an honor."

Maybe it was just John, but something in Krissa's voice didn't sound too enthusiastic about that honor.

" So this Savine is trying to kill you?" he asked without hiding his disgust.

" It's her way. It's not like we weren't prepared. She's always hated me. I think that's why my parents were so insistent I go to Divante. If I can become a member of his staff, then Savine can't touch me."

John started in alarm. " But, what? Until then you're fair game?"

" I'm afraid so." Krissa sounded so casual about it, and that shocked John even more than he thought possible.

 _She's a little freakin' girl! Who the hell assassinates a little girl!_ " Aren't you scared?"

" Very. But I'm confident. If I win, then I'm safe. If I lose, then my cousin has offered to take me away where Savine cannot find me."

John shifted uncomfortably. The girl sounded so... _excepting_ of this predicament, so finalized, as though it was something she had been thinking over for years. " I'm sorry, but that sounds like a pretty freakin' rotten deal to me. I mean who the hell is this woman to do that to you? Personally, apart from scared, I'd be pissed."

" Pissed?"

" Angry. Excessively angry."

Krissa was toying with a piece of fruit, peeling off bits of skin and sticking them in her mouth. " Oh, I am that too, but mostly afraid. Savine... she has her, um, ways, I'd rather not get into. But once we reach Divante's home, then we will have a better chance of surviving her. She'll have others in the competition to contend with, which should help. The thing is, once we arrive... um..." Krissa winced, then looked away from John.

John lowered his head to try and catch her eye. " What?"

Krissa looked over at Bren, and Bren looked back at her, still stern as though mutely berating her. John looked from one to the other. It didn't take a McKay to see that Krissa was holding back something, and that something was worse than Savine.

" What?" John pressed, heart thudding.

Krissa cleared her throat. " Well, first off, let me just say that when we arrive I'll try to find a way to get you home."

John narrowed his eyes at her. " Okay."

" Yes, okay. Second of all, there is a chance that might not be possible."

And there it was. John went rigid. " What!"

Krissa held up both hands, teetering on the edge of panic. " No, no, it's not like that! I mean not permanently. You just might not be able to get home for a while. You see, Diavante has this... shield, I suppose you would call it. It's what hides his home. You get in with this..." she pulled a small, square metal card from her cloak and handed it to John. It was smooth and not really much to look at, but he felt a slight vibration emanating from it through his fingertips.

" It's a key card that grants passage through the shield. Without it, you wouldn't be able to find the turn in the road that takes you to Divante's. It's a very sophisticated shield. If you went off the road in hopes of stumbling on the right path, you'd end up wandering the woods until the shield was shut down or someone found you. It jumbles your neurons and perception so that all direction is lost. With the card, a kind of door is open, showing you the road. The problem is, once you go in, you can't come out until the competition is over and the departing key cards are issued. Keeps the wrong people from using the cards to gain access. Even more ingenious, the cards will not work if they're together. To use the other, you must destroy the one."

John returned the card to her. His stomach felt suddenly too small to hold the acid sloshing around. " So I'm stuck in this place until this competition is over?" So much for contacting his team via radio. If this 'shield' was anything like the Cyaladran shield – and he would bet good money that it was – then electronic devices wouldn't penetrate.

Unless this Divante had a trick or two up his sleeve that bent the rules.

" Not necessarily," Krissa said. " I know Diavante has people who retrieve supplies. They might be able to take you from the shield. I'm just warning you because there have been times during competition when the supply runners are rarely seen, sometimes never seen. But I'm sure Diavante would let you pass."

" Have you ever met this Diavante?"

Krissa shook her head. " No. Not yet."

John nodded with jaw clenched. " So you're assuming."

An abashed nod with cheeks tinted pink. " He's reclusive, as I said. He may not like having an uninvited stranger around. But, even if you're unable to leave, the competition isn't for long. At most, a month, sometimes less."

John's heart plummeted. A month. It wasn't forever, but it sounded like forever. He had a city to protect, a team to alert so they wouldn't think him dead...

" But..." Krissa continued, " should you end up remaining... You'll need to be careful. The competition can be – um – fierce. I've heard of competitors going for very _Savine_ like tactics. You know - killing, sabotage... it can be dangerous. And Savine won't be happy that you're still alive and with me. You'll need to avoid her until we get you out, or the competition ends. You're a witness."

John was pretty sure the color just drained from his face. No wonder this kid looked older than she was. He'd tack on a few years himself if he went through what she was going through, knew what she knew.

 _Assassination of a twelve year old!_

" Seriously, who is this Savine chick? What gives her the means to play Hitler?"

Krissa sighed heavily. " She is my grandmother."

TBC...


	13. Standoff

" Your grandmother?"

Krissa, back up front, cast a look of mild exasperation over her shoulder. " Yes, Mr. Sheppard. For the third time, yes."

John, leaning against the backboard of the seat, shook his head. " I know, I'm just... Your grandma! Your – what, mom or dad's mother?"

" My mother's mother."

" Okay. Your mom's mom? Jeez, kid. Grandma, as in the lady who's supposed to spoil you with milk and fresh baked cookies?"

Krissa cast another look over her shoulder, this one confused. " Milk and cookies?"

" Milk is a drink. Cookies are a kind of... crunchy pastry thing – Your grandma!"

Krissa sighed, but said nothing.

John kept shaking his head, wondering when and how he'd landed in Stephen King's version of Little Red Riding Hood. It was sick, just sick. The Pegasus Galaxy was full of too many sickos, and John seemed hexed to forever be the one to run into them. The automatic question was how anyone could be twisted enough to kill their own grandchild, and over a stupid contest? But then, John had met Savine. That woman led the sicko parade, with Menk commanding the marching band made up of Genii and Wraith.

John exhaled a shuddering breath. " Your mom's not like Savine, right?" he said by way of changing the subject.

" Oh no, not at all. My mother and uncle were raised by my grandfather. Savine married for money so that she could fund her projects, and had my mother and my uncle to satisfy Grandfather's desire for children. That is what mother told me. She never wanted me around Savine. We're a very honest family, you see, and just because someone is blood does not mean we should have to put up with their cruelty. We don't really consider Savine family, not anymore."

" Gee I wonder why?" John muttered under his breath. Every family had their little flaws, or big ones. John didn't exactly have a tight camaraderie with his own father, but compared to Krissa's situation it was a freakin' picnic.

 _Better the cold shoulder than dead any day._

John opened his mouth, about to expound on the subject, only to snap it shut with an audible click of teeth. He was pushing it, he knew it. No one wants to be reminded of impending death and the mental instability of a family member. It was time for another change in subject.

John cleared his throat. " So, um, you said you don't make a lot of stops?"

Krissa shook her head, pony-tail wagging. " No, too dangerous until we reach the compound. Especially at night."

John's eyes scanned the twilight dim forest. " Obviously." The clack of branches echoed sharp as a slap. Other than that, had the cart not been moving, John could have heard his own heart beating. The silence was the kind that was supposed to be the herald before the bad. Monster out of the forest, then birds sing. Monster in the forest, then everything living shuts up. Thick, perfect silence that made the creak and squeak of the cart almost deafening. There was no opportunity of warning if anything came – unless John listened really hard for its breathing. Luck of the audible draw if he did.

The solid gray sky made it surreal. John glanced at Krissa in her amber cloak. What was that movie, the one brought in on the Dedaelus, about the village?

 _Duh, The Village._ John was excessively thankful not to be wearing anything red at the moment.

The silence pressed on John like an actual physical entity, and it was scaring the crap out of him.

" Tell me about this contest," he said for the sake of saying something, pushing the entity back.

" Not much more to tell, really," Krissa said. " We must create something, and Divante judges it."

Krissa then turned her upper body enough to see John. " What was Atlantis like? Before the wraith came, I mean. My father told me the wraith destroyed it."

John stifled a wince. Not that he would have to lie about Atlantis since someone else had done the job for him, but it made him squirm having to hold to that lie with the girl who'd saved his life.

" It's um... pretty."

She lifted an eyebrow, and he almost grinned. It was such a very Elizabeth like reaction. McKay brain, Elizabeth personality, Carson bed-side manner – he liked this girl. " Yeah. Lots of technology, floats on water..."

Krissa perked. " Really?"

" Yeah. Used to be underwater 'til we arrived. It was really cool when we got there, too. See, in order to run the place you've gotta have this gene, this deeper blood tie, I guess, to the people you call the Ancestors. Mine was pretty freakin' strong, which is how I ended up on the team heading to the city. The moment I walked in, everything started lighting up. You know what it's like – having an alien city you never even heard of or knew existed wake up for you like it was waiting for you?"

Krissa had her arms folded on the backrest of the seat, and her head resting on her arms with a wistful grin on her face. Her eyes, for once, were void of the melancholia that John found too disconcerting.

" Special?"

Now John was the one going wistful as he thought back on that day. " Kind of like... I was home." It was something John had never really acknowledged since there had always been the firm belief in the back of his mind that one day the expedition would come to an end and he would have to return to earth. The expedition didn't even have to really end, just circumstances playing out that would permanently ground him or deem him unfit to lead the soldiers protecting the city. But time passed as time does, and that notion had been shoved to the dusty, rarely visited recesses of his mind.

" Do you miss it?" Krissa asked next.

John, without even realizing it, answered her in all utter truth. " Yeah, I do." Vacation time had been a bust. He wanted to go home, bad.

Krissa scrunched her brow. " So, since the city woke up for you... does that make you one of the Ancestors?"

John shrugged and idly scratched the back of his neck. " I have no idea. Related to them, maybe, like a hybrid I guess. I never really understood all that 'some people have the gene more than others' deal. Some of us have the gene, some of us don't, and always at levels. It was kind of an accident I came, really. I just sat in some chair the Ancients had built and..." he slammed his fist into his palm, " bam, here I am."

" What did you do before then?"

" I was a pilot." At her perplexed look he added, " We have machines that fly, and the people who fly them are called pilots."

" Ohhh. Yes, I see. We call them flyers."

John grinned. " Less complicated title, I suppose. But that's what I did, I flew things. Still do, actually, only what I fly now is a lot more fun."

" Wish I could be a 'pilot'. I tried building a glider from scratch – that's what we call our machines – but father wouldn't let me try it out. Which was probably a good thing, since someone stole it and it crashed. I like things that fly."

" Well then I guess it's safe to say you like me, then," he replied with another grin.

Krissa mirrored it. " You saved my life and you're funny, so yes, you're easy to like."

John's eyes, still roving the forest, fell on Bren. The man might have been a robot for all John knew, the way he kept his sights on the road, never jumping in on any of the conversations. Or maybe it was the mandate of servants never to speak. But then John recalled the stern look the old man had given Krissa that led to the confession about Savine. He was above and beyond lowly invisible lackey.

John leaned in toward Krissa and lowered his voice. " Can he hear?"

Krissa darted a glance at the old man. " Who, Bren? Of course. He just can't speak. A childhood sickness took his voice. He speaks with his hands and a typing pad."

John nodded in understanding. " Ah."

" So, what are the flying machines of your world like?" Krissa asked next, beaming and staring in wide-eyed wonder at John. He proceeded to try and explain helicopters, jets, airliners, even hangliders. Somehow that led to hobbies, sports, games. John told her about surfing, and she told him about plain running – like wind surfing only on a board with wheels over short grassland. She'd attempted the sport and ended up with a concussion. John told her of the five times he'd nearly drowned and the one time a shark tried to take his leg and him with it.

Later in the day, Krissa took over steering the cart for Bren so that he could rest. When dusk came, they stopped for a short, fifteen minute break, eating then feeding the two-legged creature Krissa called a vrat. After that, they were off with Bren taking the vrat's reins. Night came, and Krissa gave John a blanket. She moved to the foot of the wagon to sleep, while John remained at the front. When John woke up, he found Krissa steering and Bren asleep at the back.

Not wanting to feel the freeloader, John took a go at steering, which wasn't much of a feat. Little steering was involved since the vrat wasn't too keen on veering toward the woods. The only trouble with the vrat was that it liked to stop and nibble on whatever leaves were in reach, requiring a hard snap of the reins to get it moving.

" You, know," Krissa said, " it is much easier with three to drive. Bren is a healthy man, but he's not as he used to be. He needs to be more rested so he can remain more alert, I keep telling him. But he doesn't like me staying up late."

John smiled. " He the family butler or something?"

" I don't know this term 'butler', but he has worked for my family since my father was my age. He used to manage the household, then became my assistant when I joined the guild. He's very adept in things electronic. It's important to have someone assisting you who knows such things. The complicated systems of some devices don't allow for single mistakes. The navigation systems of a glider, for example..."

For the seventh time since the new day began, John's thoughts shot back to his team, specifically Rodney, because had Rodney been here he'd be trying to find a way to adopt this girl. John hoped like hell the team wasn't being targeted by Savine's Mad Max squad at this very moment.

Krissa's technical ramblings meandered from the intricacies of gliders to the complex theories of stargate travel and the systems of the gates themselves. Her knowledge was astounding in that brain numbing way of which John didn't understand a word, but knew enough to be impressed. This girl really was smart, genius smart, give McKay a run for his money smart.

 _Oh, they have so totally got to meet._ Yes, McKay would definitely be considering having children after meeting her.

Unable to help himself, John told her of the time he and his team got stuck in the gate, and the iratus bug trying to suck the life out of him. Of course, conversation took another journey, and he ended up talking about nearly becoming a bug himself.

Krissa paled at that. The look of wonder and excitement was gone, and a blank, unreadable mask replaced it. " You, um, you were nearly transformed?"

" Nearly, but no dice. A cure was thrown together... last minute." He grimaced at the recollection of it, then peered at Krissa. " You all right?"

Krissa nodded and swallowed. " It's just... Savine – that's her interest. Bio-structure. The recreation of living tissue into something else."

John did a double take at Krissa. " Recreation? What do you mean recreation?"

Krissa screwed her mouth in concentration. " I'm – not really sure. She deals in living things, but I've never seen her work, or the by products of it. I just heard things, such as this plant she created or something – out of two different plants. It's a flower, very beautiful, but sprays poison in your face if you get too close. My cousin told me of it. Said Savine once had a greenhouse full of such plants. My cousin would spy on her to see if something could be found to use against her to put her away for good. Savine, however," Krissa sighed, " she's clever."

The vrat tugged on the reins, going for a shrub growing on the side of the road. John snapped the reins, and the sound cracked through the dead-quiet woods. He cringed at the reverberations.

" So she's a genetisist," he said.

" If that is what you call those who deal with living things, then yes. I think some of the stories I heard are just rumor, though."

" What stories?"

Krissa shrugged. " About experiments, I'm not sure. They vary a lot."

John looked at Krissa dubiously, then back at the road.

 _Freakin' female Frankenstein? Wouldn't hold it past the old bat._ It was the last thing John wanted to deal with – someone with a god complex. It was hard enough to handle in McKay.

Then again, maybe she only focused her research on plants. Frankenstein as a botanist – that didn't sound any better.

Night came, and John was curled in the back of the wagon, this time at the foot with Krissa huddled behind the seat. John was getting used to sleeping through a rough ride. Dreams snaked there way in, killing time, letting his body heal.

John was running – running, running, running, half naked, cold, hungry, hurting, screaming. They were behind him, breathing on his bare back, hot breath rolling down susceptible flesh like flames. Mathers was shouting from the darkness.

" They'll kill you, sir. You can't outrun them."

He passed Culs, and the man grinned. " Liked ya, Master Sheppard. Liked ya I did."

A howl...

John jerked awake and sat up, panting, shaking, and wet with sweat. The howl was lingering again. He couldn't see anything past the swinging light of the flaccid lamp. He did see Krissa's face, pale in the wan light, eyes wide. She was staring beyond the wagon into the wall of black that was all around them. John glanced at Bren and saw a rifle lying across his lap. John reached beneath a gunny sack for his P-90.

" What's going on?" he whispered.

Krissa shivered and hunched into her blanket. " Things of the forest," she whispered back. Then looked at him in wide-eyed, child like fright. " We'll be all right. We're on the road."

There was no conviction in her voice, just a poor attempt at self-easement. John brought his gun closer and held it tight.

" Are you all right?" Krissa asked. John's head jerked around to stare at her incomprehensibly.

" Huh?"

" Are you all right? You were, um, mumbling in your sleep... and shaking. You're still shaking."

John looked down at his unsteady hands. " Oh. Bad dream."

" Oh," she said. That one simple word held oceans of understanding. Both fell silent, listening beyond the clatter of the wagon to the quiet, and watching the darkness.

SGASGASGASGA

Morning was an unfriendly presence, more gray with breezes escalating into pushy high winds. John, in the back, could smell rain, which was about time. Not that he had wanted it to rain, not while they were out in the open, but having storm clouds overhead for days without so much as a drop had felt unnatural to him. Normalcy was becoming a luxury, a much deprived luxury.

 _Became that way the moment I sat in that chair._

John felt the first cold kiss of rain on his cheekbone. Actually, more like spittle. The next drop took its sweet time. First drizzle, then the deluge would follow, but John was assuming. He wasn't exactly up to speed on Sriot's weather patterns.

John heard Krissa gasp. " We're here, look!"

John straightened, peering between the two seated occupants. The trees lining the road like the walls of a corridor ended at courtyard of cobblestone with a dead fountain dead center and an immaculate front entrance filling every modicum of John's view.

The place was huge, like a castle, but the structure was – to John's slight discomfort – very _Fall of the House of Usher_ ; exceedingly Victorian, made of gray brick, with dark gabled roofs, arched windows, and some sort of deep green ivy snaking up most of the walls. John shivered. He was only looking at the front of the house – a scratch on the surface – and it was making him go cold. Dark windows like empty eye sockets gave off the impression that no one resided in this place. The weed choked fountain added to his notions, along with the dead lawn and lack of any kind of valet waiting in ready to park the wagon.

" Oh, it's so big," Krissa breathed in awe, but John caught her shrinking back ever so subtly, as though trying not to. John had to fight not to do the same. This place was of the kind that would have rooms within rooms, hidden rooms, tower rooms, secret passageways, and the only way to get around was to have the blueprints handy.

The vrat's claws clicked on the cobblestone. Bren steered it around the fountain and onto a narrow paved path hugging the walls of the mammoth house with trees reflected black in the empty windows. Windows gave way to blank wall, and the path turned gently into a large entry way leading into another courtyard with a massive stable ahead and another on the right.

 _Here there be life_ , John thought. There were people about, very few, as well as... _What the hell are those_? They walked like humans – sort of – dressed human, but there was nothing human about them. Creatures, plain and simple, the biggest roughly four feet tall, and all varying in physical description. Some were hairy, others scaled. A few had tails, or horns, or even wings, cat-like faces, dog-like faces, bird-like faces, lizard-like faces. It was like someone had taken every living creature, put them in a blender, hit liquify, and sat back to watch the result. Some of the creatures he couldn't even place a known animal to.

The creatures were all over the place tending to animals, hitching them, unhitching them, getting feed, dragging luggage through a door at the side of the house.

" What are those things?" John asked. To his alarm, Krissa appeared just as perplexed and inching toward fascinated.

" I don't know. I've never seen creatures like them before."

Bren steered the wagon to the stable across from the entrance. A silver clad figure emerged from the side entrance of that stable, and John didn't need to see the face to know to duck. A blanket was thrown over him immediately after.

" Stay down, don't move!" Krissa whispered. Then, a moment later...

" Grandmother Savine..."

" Don't call me that, child! Where is he!"

" Who Savine?"

John took shallow breaths, and suddenly despised the fact that he was so tall. He just couldn't curl small enough. There were three heartbeats of silence before Savine spoke again. John could picture the condescending look simulating her words.

" Do you really think I'm that stupid, Krissa? Apparently, you do, which isn't saying all that much about your supposed intelligence. I know you, Krissa. That man tried to attack me, girl. Vice left him wounded on the side of the road. _Very_ wounded. You wouldn't have rode passed him without stopping to help. You're _always_ stopping to help even when it's a dead insect stuck to your wagon wheel. You wouldn't have left that man to die. And if he's with you then hand him over. He's dangerous and needs to be dealt with."

" That _man_ was already dead when we found him. We buried him."

" Impossible! You wouldn't have stayed long enough to bury him even in a shallow grave. You have his body..."

John heard the rapid crunch of footsteps growing closer, and his heart beat faster with each step. Grab of the hair, twist of the neck, and that's all it would take for Savine to finish him off. John doubted either Krissa or Bren would be able to stop super freak grandma in time. John wrapped his hand around the grip of his 9 mil and carefully slid it from the thigh holster.

" Savine!" Krissa called with an authority that rocked John. " Whether we chose to bring a body for a proper burial is our business! You left him to die, so by right he's ours to do with as we please. So just back off!"

John clamped his mouth tight to keep from laughing out loud and cheering Krissa on. The girl would have made Teyla proud, and Ronon grin.

There was silence, then...

" Vice!"

Krissa shouted in protest. The blanket was ripped off Sheppard, and in the same instant he brought up his 9 mil to point it directly at Vlad the Impaler's face. The guy's brows lifted, and that's as far as he went in terms of surprise.

John winked. " Howdy Vice."

" I knew it!" Savine screamed. " You lying little...!" John looked over his shoulder in time to see Savine advancing on Krissa. Bren brought up his rifle, and John snatched his P-90 from under the gunny sack and stood up – 9-mil on Vice, P-90 on Savine. Savine stopped cold in her tracks, hatred sparking like dynamite in her eyes and her lips curling as though trying to bare fangs that weren't there.

" Down girl," John warned. It felt indescribably wonderful being able to point a weapon at super witch and her thug. Her second goon, the spiky haired one, had hold of the vrat's reins. The third was on the other side of the wagon, pointing a stunner at John. Bren, however – with John keeping Savine and Vice covered – altered his aim toward goon three. Krissa had her own small gun out pointed at the goon holding the vrat, and the goon returned the favor by aiming at Bren. Standoff time.

John had a feeling the competition had officially begun.

TBC...


	14. Welcome Wagon

" Hand him over, girl," Savine sneered. " He has to be punished! He attacked me!"

Krissa narrowed her eyes coolly, imperiously. " Attacked you? You really are stupid then, Savine. I know you too, and had this man actually attacked you, then he really would be dead. But he isn't. You sent him to kill me, but he saved me instead, so now you want him dead. Well too bad! I'm sending him home, and there's nothing you can do about it!"

Savine laughed coldly – wicked-witch of the west coldly. John wished a house would drop on her already.

" Home? You stupid whelp! The competition is in play. No one is allowed to leave. Diavante has forbidden it. This competition is too important to risk on trust. Your 'friend' is stuck here with the rest of us, and you can't protect his hide if you wish to save your own."

" She isn't protecting me," John said, keeping both Savine and Vice in his peripheral vision. " I'm protecting her."

Krissa's head twitched, but couldn't turn without taking her eyes off goon two. " John!" she hissed. " No!"

" Hey, I'm stuck here. It's the least I can do."

" But taking sides is dangerous, especially as a protector!"

" Krissa, protecting is what I do, it's my job. If I can protect an entire city, I can certainly protect a single person. No big deal."

Savine shook her head in disgust. " You have no idea what you're getting into." Her voice was low, husky – threatening.

" And you have no idea what I've already been through that makes me not give a damn!" John snarled. Maybe he was boasting, but he didn't care. Wraith, Genii, Cyladrans – one twisted freak after another. What was a couple more?

" John," Krissa pleaded.

" I know what I'm doing," he replied. " It really is the least I can do."

" What is going on!"

Not a single head turned. No one was that naïve. A tall, lean man in a shimmering silver robe much like Savine's moved into John's line of sight. He looked to be a few years younger than Savine, with receding black hair coming past his shoulders, and hands folded on a pot-belly. His face was severe, stern, as though he would gladly tear everyone's head from their shoulders if they didn't listen to the next words he said. There was a good possibility he could have made Ronon twitch.

" Lower your weapons! Now!"

Arms moved as one, dropping to the side or back into laps. The guy was good. John wanted to laugh, but didn't want that withering gaze turned on him. It was like being in highschool again, with the teacher waiting for someone to make a disturbance so a little detention could be meted out.

" While on the grounds of the esteemed Diavante, no hostility is to be permitted. All are to come and go as they please. Now depart Savine!"

Savine glared bullets at Krissa, then at John, hesitating only to acquiesce when the bald man cleared his throat. Vice pointed at John, then with the same finger ran it across his own throat. John holstered his 9 mil to shape his fingers into gun-likeness and mime-shoot Vice.

" Back at ya," he mumbled. Vice limped heavily away with a wince for each step.

Somehow, it didn't surprise John that the balding man hadn't demanded the details behind the little Mexican standoff.

 _Hostility not permitted my ass._ More along the lines of 'didn't see, didn't happen, what Diavante doesn't know can't hurt the guilty party.' The only merit to that was not getting dragged in for an interrogation to determine if Savine's accusations were true. A small positive, since in the long term view, John would end up preferring an interrogation to sleeping with one eye open.

" Miss Krissa Ameens?" the balding man asked. The scowl must have been the only workable feature on his face. He approached the wagon and bowed stiffly at the waist. " I am Vrun, Diavante's master of household. I welcome you on his behalf. Please state the names of your party."

Krissa gestured to Bren. " This is Bren Mier," then John, " and John Sheppard."

" Be sure they sign in," Vrun said. " Ground rules. There is to be no entering labs other than your own. There is to be no wandering the halls or grounds during the night after the evening meal. You may go to and from your lab after dark, but that is all. And there is to be no confrontation between competitors. A house servant will be assigned to you as an extra assistant, and you may speak only to that assistant. Should you need more assistance, the assistant will gather more for you. A schedule of meals and events will be left in your quarters. That is all."

Vrun then turned on his heels and strode stiffly away, back into the side entrance where Savine and her cronies had slunk off through. John, Krissa, and Bren watched him go.

" Well wasn't he all sunshine and love," John growled. Krissa giggled, then sobered, turning enough to look up at John.

" John, you really shouldn't have called yourself a protector. To get to me, Savine will kill you first."

John climbed from the wagon. " Story of my life. Listen, Krissa, it wasn't exactly a spur of the moment thing. I knew what I was saying and I meant it. Since I'm obviously stuck here, I'm not just gonna stand around and let bad crap happen just because there's a chance Savine might off me. People have been trying to put a bullet in my brain or suck me dry the day I came into this galaxy." He clipped his P-90 to his vest then turned to lean against the wagon and face Krissa. " I've dealt with wraith hives. And seeing as how your grandmother is one gene away from being a wraith queen," he tweaked his lips into a both wry and bitter smirk, " I think I can handle her."

Krissa smiled. It was a sad, barely existent smile, but appreciative none the less. Then it wavered and was gone. " You need to be careful. Very careful."

John nodded. " I know. Believe me I know." He then held out his hand and assisted Krissa in stepping from the wagon. Bren climbed down on the other side, taking the vrats reins to lead it to the stables. John and Krissa followed behind. Once at the stables with stalls occupied by vrats and the hairy mammoth horses, John and Krissa unloaded the gunny sacks while Bren unhitched the vrat and guided it into an empty stall.

John was setting a sack outside the stable, and on looking up while straightening from a crouch, jumped a foot back.

" Whoa, jeez!"

One of the anthropomorphic creatures was standing right in front of him, regarding John with heavy-lidded eyes. The thing came to John's hip in height, and had a head like a vulture's, only copper in color and with two large, bat-like ears on either side of the hairless skull. Its clothes consisted of a dingy brown shirt, jacket, and trousers with nothing covering its clawed, three-toed feet. It had its clawed hands clasped behind its back, and its lizard tail was twitching.

" Good day sir," it said in a bored, raspy voice. " I have been sent to aid Miss Krissa. If you are ready and will follow me, I will show you to your quarters."

With that said, the creature picked up two of the sacks and slung both over its shoulder. Krissa and Bren walked up beside John carrying one bag each, and looked at the creature with the same perplexity and uncertainty that had overcome John. John lifted the sack he'd set by the stable door.

" You'd think I'd be used to crap like that by now," he huffed, and followed the creature toward the house.

SGASGASGASGASGA

John was right, definitely a house he'd get lost in, probably before the day was out. Outside it was huge, and inside it was just as huge, with wide corridors and stone floors covered by thick carpets. It had what one would expect a Victorian mansion to have; paintings and mirrors in gold gilded frames on the walls, couches and chairs all padded in red or blue cushions, small tables supporting painted vases or plants, and door after door after door. The side entrance had taken the little party through the massive kitchens with their many stoves, tables, shelves, and pantries. Humans and creatures alike were in constant motion, grabbing this, getting that, stirring this, all in a state of organized chaos – not a single one had run into another, maneuvering as though it were all a well rehearsed dance.

Beyond the kitchen they went through the dining room – huge, of course, and a little medieval with its tapestries and carpet-less floor. After the dining room, the hallway that took them to a set of curving stairs. Up the stairs, another hall, with walls cluttered in more paintings and mirrors. John counted seven doors in before they reached the room. The creature heaved the doors open that groaned as though in pain. Inside was a parlor, a huge parlor, with another set of doors on the right leading to the bed chamber.

As John suspected, there was only one king-sized four poster bed covered by a dark green quilt. Krissa' bed, obviously. The couches in the parlor looked as comfortable as any bed, with thick red cushions and adequate length for a body like John's to stretch out in full. On the right hand side of the bed chamber was a fire place with a mirror over the mantle. The fireplace in the parlor was on the left, with a painting of grazing vrats above it. The floor was carpeted in green in both rooms, and one final door in the bed chamber entered into a bathroom with a grandiose round bathtub that could very easily hold five people at once with elbow room to spare.

It was all about decadence and John hated it. Give him a tiny room where he could dump his stuff where he pleased and not worry about some maid throwing it out thinking it was garbage. The parlor alone was producing a sensation opposite of claustrophobia. And it was all so clean. John felt he was soiling everything just by looking at it.

The sacks were deposited in a carved and painted chest by the door to the bed chamber. Krissa wandered the parlor, then the bedroom where she found a sheet of paper printed with a schedule on the bed.

" The evening meal will be in two hours," she announced.

The creature sniffed. No butler could pull off the dignified indifference this creature was radiating. " It is to give you time to settle in. Now I must take you to your lab. Follow me."

On leaving, the creature closed the door and pressed a switch on an electronic pad below the door handle. He turned to the small party.

" You will need a key card to open the doors again, they are in your assigned lab." The creature headed off back down the hall, taking them down the stairs, then through double doors beneath those stairs. More stairs on the other side of those doors slanting down into what John could only suppose was the dungeon. Cold stone blocks walled them in, but it widened out on reaching the bottom.

Definitely the dungeon. It was large, with a high ceiling and another corridor across from them. There were doors everywhere, in the first chamber then the second through the second hall. The creature guided them into the second chamber and to the left.

Krissa's lab was as huge as the dungeon, with blue-steel tables scattered everywhere, stools, and tools. Not hammer and nails tools - tools that could have come straight from Atlantis. Scanners, data entry pads, and bits and pieces of stuff John had no idea the purpose of. The creature went to the nearest table and picked up something resembling a computer scanner. He brought it to the others, holding it out to Krissa first.

" Please place your hand on the surface to receive your key cards."

Krissa did so. The glass surface lit up, humming, then stopped. The creature went to Bren next, then John. When finished, the creature pulled a small drawer out from the bottom of the device, and picked up three palm-length metal cards.

" Keep these with you at all times. New ones cannot be created. The bio-structure scanner cannot be re-calibrated until after three months, in which time you will no longer be here." He placed the scanner back on the table, turned with three cords in his claws, and passed them out. " Having them around your neck proves most effective. If you wish to begin your project, you may. Three chimes announces the evening meal. You will have twenty minutes to prepare afterward. Is there anything else that you need?"

" Yeah," John said. " Got any maps of this place?"

The creature just stared at him with its large, unreadable eyes. " I will guide you to where you wish to go. It's best not to wander."

" Kind of got that impression the moment we arrived," John replied under his breath. The creature raised a hairless eyebrow.

" Yes." It looked at Krissa. " Miss?"

Krissa craned her neck trying to take the room in at a glance. " I need some items... from the room."

" Of course, miss. Follow me."

They retraced their path to the room, heading from alien Frankenstein's dungeon back into the mansion. Krissa kept craning, Bren was stoic and showing no apparent interest in their surroundings, and the creature seemed to be brooding, but John couldn't be sure. John widened his stride to come up along side the thing.

" So," he said conversationally. " You got a name, or do I just call you Gollum?"

" I go by no formal title sir. If you wish to call for me, call me by my designation – three three one."

John looked down at the creature. " Three three one? You a robot or something? Number three hundred and thirty one off the assembly line? I'm not going to remember that. You need a real name. How about... Bartleby. No, Bart! Like from the Simpsons. Man I miss that show."

The creature looked up at John. The boredom was gone, because now the thing was suspicious. " Do you insist on calling me by this title, sir?"

" Well, not if you don't like it."

The creature looked ahead. " What I like is irrelevant. If you wish a formal title, then I will oblige."

" Okay. But if you don't like it just say so. I just think a name's easier than a number. Besides, you look like a Bart, I have no idea why."

" Bart?" it asked.

" Yeah, Bart."

Bart sniffed again. " Simple, but remains in memory. It should do."

" So, Bart, what's your kind called?"

" My kind has no name, sir. We're servants, created to serve."

John frowned at that. " Created?"

" Yes, created. Created to assist Master Diavante in his endeavors. We are not a specific race."

" Created," John muttered to himself. Created, as in playing god, as in messing around with nature. Were McKay here, he probably would've been shouting at Bart about the dangers of messing with genetics, if genetics was behind these 'creations'. John wasn't sure what else it could be. Glorified, induced multi-species breeding? No, that was still more genetics. Not all genetics involved growing things in test-tubes.

But nothing about Bart seemed unnatural, not with all the freaky life forms John had run into since coming to Atlantis. Bart being some kind of a creation was difficult to digest. The imagination normally didn't put such intelligence into what it conjured when genetic creations or mutations were discussed (if they were ever discussed). The fact that John's own brain had nearly lost all coherent thought during his own mutant transformation had nailed the idea of genetic monsters as being low on IQ down hard. On top of that, the fact that someone was manipulating nature – and able to manipulate nature - to create intelligent servants was nerve wracking. First servants, then monsters, then super warriors. Either that or super diseases, super vaccines...

Beckett would be the one acting adamant more than McKay. The Hoffman incident was still a sore spot for the mild-mannered Scottish doc.

John didn't mention any of his thoughts concerning ' man-made creation' to Bart. He just fell silent all the way back to the room, then all the way back to the lab after Krissa retrieved the needed sack. Once in the lab, she pulled the contents from the sack and laid them out on the table. One was a data pad like McKay's, only slightly larger. The rest were bits and pieces of electronics. When done, Krissa switched on the pad and scrolled through the files. There was data written in the Sriotian language, and what looked to be blueprints. She instructed Bren to bring her certain tools and electronics, and Bart certain metals. She fell into inventor mode, picking through items, taking what she needed, and laying them out at certain points on the table.

John hung out by the lab door, peering periodically through the small window into the dungeon. The door across from Krissa's lab opened, and a bald, small, rotund man scurried out quick as a nervous rat, looking flushed and flustered. John heard him shouting, but the words were muffled by the door. Later, a woman about John's age emerged; tall, with straight brown hair and wearing a wine-red dress and a wine red cloak. The woman looked like the type who would reside in a place like this – regal to a haughty degree.

Time passed in dull silence, and the three chimes sounded. Krissa started in surprise at the noise, glancing around for the source.

" Evening meal approaches, miss," Bart said.

Krissa blinked several times as though she'd been reading under a dim lamp. " Oh. Oh, I completely forgot!" She shut off her data pad and was the only item she took with her on leaving the lab. Bart closed and locked the lab door by pressing a small keypad, explaining that the key cards would open it as well.

McKay would have loved this place. All the privacy in the world and a free meal to boot. Were circumstances different in a way that Savine wasn't involved, then it should have been Rodney in John's place. This was his scene, his world, and chances were he might have been able to win second place by whipping something up in three minutes. The man had an uncanny aptitude for last minute solutions.

Back in the parlor, Krissa vanished within the bathroom of the bed chamber, dragging one of the sacks behind her. Bren pulled out his own sack, and from that removed a less dirt-stained button shirt. The sight of that shirt hit John with the heart-jolting realization that he looked like hell. He wasn't just dirt-stained, he was sweat and blood-stained to boot, and ragged as a dog's chew-toy. He whirled around to the ever patient Bart.

" Um, is it mandatory for _every_ member of a party to attend the evening meal?"

Bart sniffed. " If you wish to eat."

John took a deep breath, then released it sharply. " Well isn't that just a kick in the head." John wasn't all that concerned about what people thought. It was more that the bandages could be seen through the tears, advertising the fact that John was wounded – and therefore, possibly, weak. People tended to jump on weakness like starving wolves on a carcass.

" Son of a..." John muttered, looking around and thinking frantically. He felt a nudge to his shoulder, and jerked around to see Bren – dressed in more prim clothes – holding a button shirt out for John.

John blinked in surprise. It was the first time the old man had acknowledged him, at all. John took the shirt. " Um, thanks."

Bren just inclined his head.

John removed his vest, jacket, and shirt, dropping them in a pile on the floor. As he buttoned Bren's shirt on, Bart gathered the ragged and stained apparel.

John panicked ever so slightly. " Uh, I still need those. They're the only ones I've got."

" I am merely going to send them to the wash. The tears you must deal with yourself, I'm afraid. The seamstress faints at the sight of blood, and her health is poor."

John glowered. " Great."

" I can sew them."

John turned to see Krissa coming out of the bed chamber, tying her hair back with a violet ribbon. She now wore a lavender dress, with a lavender dress cloak of light gauze material to match. She smiled at John. " Sewing's kind of a hobby of mine. I'm real good at it. Is that one of Bren's shirts?"

John looked down at the shirt that hung loose on his slender frame. Bren might have been older, but he wasn't a light weight. The man had broad shoulders that could rival Ronon's.

" Um, yeah. Doesn't really match the pants, though," he said with a grin. " Sorry."

Bren tapped him on the shoulder and handed him something – a data pad. On it is said:

 _Keep your jacket, and your weapons. As a protector, you're expected to have them. The blood and tears in the material of your jacket will give you a battle-worn look. Go with it. The more battle hardened you seem, the more others will be inclined to back down._

John gave Bren an odd look. " Seriously?"

Bren took the data pad, typed something, then handed it back.

 _I've been a protector for years. Works no matter where you are._

John smirked and returned the pad. Bren – few words and to the point. Ronon would love this guy. They could spend hours hanging out, never saying a word.

John took his jacket back from Bart and placed it on with a small wince at the discomfort the movement caused his ribs. Bren handed John his P-90 and 9 mil. After which Bren slung his own rifle over his shoulder. One would think they were preparing for an off world mission to a recently culled planet.

Krissa beamed proudly at her two protectors. " Ready?"

Both men nodded. Bart led them through the hall to the dining chamber that was already filling with people – scientists and their less than friendly looking entourage. There was Savine and her thugs, of course, clustered like vultures at the far left hand corner of the room. The tall women in the wine-colored gown was hovering about the long polished table of dark wood, talking with a young, golden haired, prince-charming knock-off of a man in a brown jacket and wearing black pants. Behind the two stood their back-up, the woman's a one-eyed and thick bodied ogre of a man in a leather jacket and with dark stubble on the double chin. Prince Charming's two guardians appeared to be former Sriotian guards now wearing dark brown uniforms rather than blue. The little round scientist's protectors counted three – two looking to be soldiers dressed in gray, the other a woman with red, cropped hair and a leather long-coat.

Searching the people, John's bones tried to leap from his skin when he spotted the sickeningly familiar uniform of the Genii, flanking a tall, severe looking man with cropped brown hair and a disfigured hand.

" Oh crap," John breathed, heart pounding. The two Genii were also doing a quick scan. Their eyes passed Sheppard – twice – but neither one did a double take. John relaxed with a release of pent-up breath.

John counted fifteen scientists in all. Not a crap-load, but still plenty of competition. They all had their protectors, and their genetically created servants. Bart joined Krissa's party minutes later after having dumped John's clothes off for washing.

The tall woman in the red dress pulled herself away from prince charming and sauntered over to Krissa, the ogre following close behind. The woman smiled with a spark in her eyes John wasn't liking. She extended her hand to Krissa, who took it in a quick squeeze. The ogre, on positioning himself next to the lady, shoved Bart back. The bird-like creature stumbled and would have fallen if John hadn't caught its arm.

" Hey!" John snapped. Ogre wasn't listening, and neither was the woman.

" Miss Amreens! I have heard so much concerning you and am pleased to finally meet you. I am Sareeka from the world of Clayce, Master Scholar for our lord Moret."

Krissa smiled uncomfortably and did a small curtsy. " Please to meet you miss Sareeka."

" Please, just Sareeka. I am told you are the youngest inventor of this world. I am impressed. You must be quite exceptional for your guild to allow a child to become a member."

Krissa looked confused on whether to express gratitude or feel slighted, but still held her smile. Her discomfort appeared to increase. Bren nudged John's arm and slipped him the data pad.

 _Sareeka deals in weapons. She's not unheard of. One of Krissa's most prized creations was a shield that could block the blast of a laser rifle Sareeka had created._

John's brow lifted in sudden understanding. That's what the look was he saw in Sareeka's eyes – venom. John added a mental check to his mental list of names and faces to watch out for. Sareeka gestured to her ogre with a casual flick of her hand.

" This is Glot, my man servant. And who are of your party?" Sareeka looked from Bren to John, lingering on John, looking him up and down – appraising and analyzing. John new he was looking close to Grizzly Adam's rugged with the ragged jacket and the stubble on his face, but he was also aware that he still wasn't quite up to his usual physical standards. And standing so close to Grot was more than likely making him look positively emaciated.

 _Easy pickings, right lady? Easy pickings my ass, chick. Bring it on._ The woman smiled coyly at him. John refused to smile back. He liked a pretty face as much as the next guy, but the woman was coming off with strong vibes of (as Homer Simpson once put it best) 'Intergalactic hussy.' The way she'd been talking to prince charming, _seduction_ was her second protector next to Grot. Crap but that was freakin' cliché.

Yet it worked, because charming was watching the scene, and didn't look too happy by the way his arms were folded, back was rigid, and his brow was creased.

" This is Bren, and John Sheppard," Krissa said. Both Bren and John nodded a stiff greeting.

" Oh, so very nice to meet you both," Sareeka replied, all eyes for John. John caught Bren rolling his own eyes. If only Bren knew who Captain Kirk was, then he'd never let John live this moment down. John was actually missing the comment that would have sniped from Rodney's mouth at this precise moment.

Well, no captain Kirk today. John couldn't afford to play nice with the pretty lady. " Yeah, whatever," he muttered indifferently.

Sareeka's smile stayed, but her gaze went acidic enough for John's skin to prickle. Grot grunted.

 _Down boy. Heel, sit, play dead – yeah, play dead._

Sareeka seemed to be readying a retort by taking a deep breath, when three more chimes sounded and Vrun walked in, grouchy in expression as ever.

" Lady's and gentlemen, please be seated. The meal is about to commence.

Everyone congregated to the tables. To John's dismay, he was seated by one of the Genii thugs. Krissa was beside John, with Bren on the other side of Krissa. Prince charming sat across from Krissa, and Sareeka placed herself on the far right end of the table. Savine was all the way at the other end with her goons.

Vrun stood at the head of the table and cleared his throat loud enough for it to echo through the chamber. " Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of your host Diavante, I welcome you. Diavante will not be joining you for meals as he is occupied..."

Servants, both human and creation, came in through the kitchen doors, wheeling trays or carrying platters by hand.

" Please begin at your will. Any confrontations to break out and the party responsible will be forced to exit the dining hall early."

Plates were already set up. The food was set in the center of the table, all colorful, all from Sriot. The meat John could handle, but those blasted prismatic array of vegetables had returned. John was going to have a hell of a time choking it down, not only to save face, but to please Beckett once all this was over.

The drinks varied from punches to wines. John went for the non-inebriating stuff. Not smart to be drunk on his first day as protector.

John took mostly meat and a few palatable looking veggies, plus fruit and bread. He felt eyes trying to burn holes into his skull, but didn't need to look up to know that it was prince charming doing the burning. John ignored it, blissfully dining away. He had to admit, the meat was awesome, best stuff he'd had in a long time.

John leaned in toward Krissa. " Don't look at him, but do you know who blondie is? The guy sitting across from you?"

Krissa was slicing what looked like a neon-green carrot. " I don't know. I've never seen him before. I might know of him if I heard his name."

John went back to his own food. Prince was relentless. John could hear his furious sawing and clatter of eating utensils. It could have been a ploy, though. An attempt at riling John to get Krissa thrown out. What that would achieve, John had no idea. Satisfaction for pride, no doubt. Sareeka might not be the only one with a problem against children being allowed in the contest.

John paused in cutting his meat, and rolled his eyes up to meet Charming's smoldering gaze.

" Yes?" John asked with the most sickeningly sweet tone he could conjure. " Do you need something or do you just find me fascinating?" John batted his eyes at the kid. Charming looked away to glare daggers at his own plate. Krissa covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.

The conversation at the table was a low hum, since most weren't really in the right mood for conversation, not with potential enemies at any rate. When someone finished their meal, they would rise quietly and leave quietly. John was relieved to see both Savine and the Genii scientist exit. One of the guards had started to eye John carefully. Charming was next to depart, refusing to look at John now. Sareeka followed later.

John finished and waited for Krissa and Bren. Once done, they all headed out with Bart leading the way. They were up the stairs and entering the hall when a body burst from the shadows and collided into John, slamming him into the wall. Manicured hands tightened on the collar of John's jacket, and his face was brought within inches of Charming's.

" You stay away from Sareeka!" the kid snarled. " You hear me? Don't you _dare_ go near her. She's mine!"

John didn't know whether Charming meant in terms of love or elimination out of personal vendetta. John narrowed his eyes, then head-butted the kid. Charming, dazed, stumbled back. John tugged his jacket back into place, then grabbed the kid by the collar of his nice dress jacket.

" All you had to do was ask," John said, and pushed the kid away. " She's all yours kid," he threw over his shoulder as he continued on with an amused Bren and slack-jawed Krissa.

The moment they were in the room with the door shut behind them, John grabbed his forehead, doubling over, and sucked in a sharp breath.

" Ah son of a...! Crap! Damnit! Kid's head is made out of rock!"

Krissa, giggling, took John's arm and led him to one of the couches. " Let me see."

John dropped into the seat but waved her off. " It's no big deal. I do it all the time. It's the aim, you've gotta get it just right... Crap!"

Krissa pulled his hand away and studied his head. " Doesn't look too bad. Might become bruised. I'll get you a cold cloth."

" Allow me, miss," said Bart who was already ambling to the bathroom. He came back minutes later with a wet blue cloth and handed it to John to press against his head.

" You really are funny, John," Krissa said.

John forced a weak smile. " Thanks, I think." The pain was quick about abating. He lowered the cloth. " Think I did all right in there?"

Krissa, beaming, nodded. " Yes. I don't think Sareeka will be bothering us, or the blond man. It's mostly Savine we need to be careful of."

John nodded. " Yeah, obviously."

Bren tapped John on the shoulder and passed him the pad.

 _I'll take first watch. I need to set up the security nodes. You rest. You need it. You're still healing. I'll wake you when it's your time._

John handed the pad back. " Sure, thanks. Speaking of which, I should probably get these bandages changed."

" Need help?" Krissa asked.

" I shall assist, miss," Bart said, and headed back into the bathroom.

" Yeah, Bart can help," John said. " You should go to bed. I've never bought into that 'sleep deprived makes for better thinkers' crap."

Krissa scrunched her face. " Who says that?"

" Rodney. Buddy of mine. Too bad he's not here, you'd love him. Well... _possibly_ find him amusing. I'll tell you more tomorrow."

Krissa smiled. She took the cloth from John, then leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. " Thank you, Mr. Sheppard, for doing this I mean. Protecting me - I mean."

John smiled wearily back. " No problem."

With a quick kiss on the cheek for Bren, Krissa headed into the bed chamber, saying goodnight to Bart passing her on its way out. It had a green metal box in its claws, and set it on the floor by John's feet. Bren went to the chest and pulled out a small sack. He began walking the perimeter of the room, setting small devices under the mantel of the fire place, on the walls, and especially by the door.

John removed the button shirt while observing the old man. Bart opened the box and pulled out bandages and ointments in small bottles, setting them on the floor. The creature removed the soiled bandages, and using a yellow cloth wiped the cuts and stitches with ointment. John winced, the pain stinging at first, but fleeting, numbing the wounds into tolerance.

" Cold, Mr. Sheppard?"

" A little. Why?"

" You're shivering."

John shrugged a shoulder. " Long day. Besides, I get cold easy all the time."

Bart wrapped the bandages around John's chest. Once finished, John placed the shirt back over his bruised body and buttoned up while Bart gathered the medical supplies back into the kit. " I will leave this out for future use," it said. Bart then went out of the room, leaving the door open a crack. When it returned, it was carrying a pile of blankets in its arm, and two pillows using its tail. It placed one set on one couch, then ambled over to John to hand him the other set. Bart went out again, and returned with two more blankets, handing them to John. John set about fixing up the couch into a bed, peering at Bart who stood off to the side in waiting with claws clasped behind its back.

" Where do you sleep?" John asked.

" In here."

" Where in here? Not the floor..."

" Until the competition has ended, I must reside with the party I am assigned to, and sleep where I must."

John took one of the blankets and tossed it to Bart. " Well I shouldn't think that requires you to sleep on the floor. It's a nice carpet and all, but this room isn't that warm."

Bart caught the blanket without looking, being too busy staring at John in a penetrating, suspecting sort of way.

John kicked off his boots and crawled beneath the layers of blankets. The couch really was good as any bed, even if it was narrower.

" Relax, Bart. It's not like I poisoned the thing with itching powder. You're not a dog, so feel free to sleep on the furniture."

John never saw if Bart did. Warm, comfortable, his bones able to sink into something soft rather than being battered by unyeilding surfaces, he was out the moment his eyelids slid shut.

TBC...

TBC...


	15. Whispers

" _Jooooohn."_

John opened his eyes.

" _Jooooohn_."

He couldn't move. He willed motion, but his limbs wouldn't respond, like those dreams where one is running down a corridor that just keeps getting longer and longer.

" _Joooohn."_

He was a stranger in his own frame, seeing through eyes like seeing through a window from five feet away. Detached, disconnected, shoved to the back of his own brain with no one to steer at the front. Something caressed his mind, touched it, probed it, breathed on it. John's gut churned, and his body reacted without him by stiffening the spine and halting the breath. His heart was pounding in his ears, in his throat, thundering in his head. He couldn't even whimper like a pathetic pup.

" _Joooohn."_

" _Tell me about Atlantis John."_

The words were a whispering purr that violated his conscious. Then came the gutteral growl. Unseen light flashed off of yellow eyes. The erek placed a heavy paw on John's chest. John couldn't control, but he could certainly feel. The erak smiled stained teeth, digging its claws into Sheppard's skin.

The claws punctured bone, raked, and split John open like a ripe melon. John could only scream in his head.

John snapped upright.

" Son of a...!" His hand went to his heaving chest to encounter the solidity of muscle and bone. He breathed out in relief, but it didn't stop his heart from hammering or his body from quaking. Sweat tickled down his back to soak the bandages and sting the cuts.

Something nudged John in the shoulder, and he jumped with a gasp. He glanced unseeing around, then up at the perplexed face of Bren. It was only then that John realized the dusky, wavering light that kept back absolute darkness. He heard the snap and roar of a fire.

Bren handed John the pad.

 _You all right?_

John closed his eyes and nodded. His heart rate had finally decided to descend from on high. " Yeah, I'm good. Just a dream." He looked back at Bren sheepishly. " Did I scream or anything?"

Bren grimaced sympathetically and nodded.

" Did I wake Krissa?"

Both men looked to the open door of the bed chamber and could see the outline of Krissa's huddled form beneath the blankets. Bren typed something on the pad still in John's hands.

 _She's always been a heavy sleeper._

" Even with all the crap she's going through?"

Bren took the pad and typed away, handing it back two minutes later.

 _She's grown accustomed. Savine had wanted Krissa as a protégées in the field of bio-mechanics. Krissa refused. Savine was furious. Felt it an affront. Savine always used to getting things her own way. Everyone knows Savine threatened by Krissa's intelligence. It's why she wanted Krissa to follow in footsteps. Uncertain why Savine feels threatened. Hostilities between Savine and family rose when Krissa entered guild. Rose again when Krissa got invite from Diavante. Savine has tried to kill Krissa through accidents. No proof, except that those Savine are angry with always die – or must flee. Krissa has become jaded to Savine's attempts. Not much Krissa can do except survive, and win a place on Divante's science team._

John returned the pad. " Sucks to be anyone these days. She does good handling it."

Bren typed and showed John the screen.

 _She's hopeful. Krissa never the type to give up. Savine old, can't live forever. Can't touch Krissa if on Diavante's pay roll. Another reason why Savine not in prison. Everyone's safe with him, to put it mildly._

" Have you ever even seen this Diavante guy?" John asked.

Bren shook his head and typed.

 _Known by reputation only. He's been around since before I can remember. And before that. He's very old. Rumors are – he has discovered how to lengthen his years."_

John shifted. " Not a secret he got from the wraith, is it?"

Bren lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. He cleared the pad's screen and typed something else.

 _I have some tea that might be able to help you sleep._

John waved the notion away. " Naw, I'm good. I'll just start my watch now. You sleep."

Bren typed: _Sure?_

John rubbed his face, his eyes, then moved his hand around to run it down his head to his neck and wipe away a lingering feel that he couldn't quite describe. " Yeah. I'm not going back to sleep any time soon."

Bren lightly patted John's back, then moved over to the couch on the other side of the room. Bart was curled up like a dog before the fire. It hadn't taken to John's permission to sleep on one of the seats, but it was at least using the proffered blanket.

John threw back his own blankets and pulled his feet from off the couch. With a shudder from an onslaught of cool air, he stood, stretched, and turned to stare out the massive night-blackened window. He didn't expect to see anything, and preferred it. He didn't want to see what lurked the ground at night, slinking from the forest like a sewer rat, vanishing in and out of shadows. He did see something, though. Distant lights from the other mansion windows, marring the perfect wall of dark. John wasn't the only insomniac in the place.

A part of him hoped to see a re-materializing puddle jumper flashing search lights through the gloom.

 _Dream on._

 _Wish I could._

One of the lighted windows blinked out.

SGASGASGASGA

John opened his eyes, and was greeted by the sight of Bart's dour face. The proximity of that face made John jerk back in fright.

" What the...! Bart, what the hell!"

" Your pardon, Mr. Sheppard. I have brought you some breakfast and thought you would want it before it grew cold."

John blinked sleep film from his eyes, then rubbed them with his palms when that refused to work. He sat up, startled that he had been lying down to begin with.

" Ah damnit! I fell asleep? Why didn't anyone wake me up? I was supposed to be on watch!"

" You were – until sunrise. You were barely alert, so Mr. Bren had you lie down. No surprise by your complacency, you were very much sleeping on your feet. Miss Krissa insisted you rest for as long as you need. Said she would be safe enough with Bren in the lab, and had me stay until you awoke."

John leaned with his elbows on his knees and yawned. Bart sniffed.

" Breakfast?"

John twitched his head up and spotted the tray of food on the small stand at the right end of the couch. John shifted over to sit beside it. He peered into the bowl filled with stuff that resembled brown cream of wheat. John picked up the spoon and swirled the stuff into melting spirals. Appetizing – he couldn't say yet, but the sweet, nutty smell was promising.

" What exactly is this?"

" Bry mash. Good for increasing energy."

John gathered a small lump of the stuff on the tip of his spoon, and with stomach clenching hesitance, took a bite.

Like cream of wheat, but with a pleasant nutty flavor to it. He ate bigger bites, and downed it all within minutes. If only Beckett could see him now. With the mash was some kind of yellow juice, but juice was juice no matter the color, and this one tasted like mangoes.

Bart was right. John was already feeling a lot less heavy in the limbs. Filled and awake, John grabbed his boots, yanked them on, threw on his jacket, grabbed his P-90 and let Bart lead the way to Frankenstein's communal lab.

" So," John said when they were in the hall. " You've been around here... a while. You've probably run into Diavante a few times. What's the guy like?"

Bart's head swiveled around on its neck – all the way around, like an owl's head, or the girl from the _Exorcist_. It's like the creature couldn't express anything else but bored apathy.

" Like?" Bart asked.

" Yeah. What's he like, look like, act like? Do you ever see him around or is he that reclusive?"

Bart sniffed, and John was starting to suspect the creature had a permanent cold.

" I have seen him."

" Okay, that's good someone has. At least I now know he exists. What's he like?"

" He is like," Bart returned his head to the front, " what he is like."

It was an effort not to cough out an acerbic laugh. " Well that's all nice and cryptic but it doesn't answer my question."

" Master Diavante is... difficult to explain. Given time, you may meet him yet. He appears to some on occasion."

John tilted his head back and rolled his eyes. " Great. Okay, then, can you answer this? Who's the blond guy who's got it bad for Sareeka? You were there the other night, you saw what went down. I'd like a name to put with the face for future reference."

" You speak of Mr. Avril. He is a purveyor of chemicals."

" A chemist?"

" If that is the term your people use, then yes. But you need not worry about Mr. Avril."

They were almost to the door leading down into the dungeon when John stopped.

" What do you mean by that?"

Bart hauled the door open. " Mr. Avril's protectors were making a very loud fuss over the disappearance of mister Avril this morning."

John balked. " Disappearance!"

Bart turned. " Yes. Seems he is not to be found anywhere on the grounds. It happens."

" It happens!" _Crap, crap, crap, crap, CRAP!_ A small fraction of John's self had been clinging to the hope that Krissa's stories of the contest were exaggerated. But one day in to being here and having someone go bye-bye this early was good reason to start giving into fear, or at least be a bit more alert. Bart being so blatantly blaze about it, however, troubled John more than the fact that someone had gone MIA.

 _It happens? How often?_ Every single day if he was to go by Bart's jaded remark

 _And Krissa let me sleep in?_ The girl could have pulled a vanishing act from the room to the lab, Bren going with her. The more eyes the merrier, and safer.

Bart was heading down the steps to the dungeon. John pushed himself into motion, taking long strides until he reached the genetic hob-goblin and stopped it with a hand on the bony shoulder.

" Hold up, wait a minute. Is anyone one looking for him, besides his protectors? Why isn't there some kind of an alert or investigation?"

Bart swiveled his head around and sighed. " Such things might have been, once. But Diavante does not wish to expend energy on such matters, especially if a favored potential for his staff may be behind it. More than likely he entered the woods. One must never enter the woods. It is why you have been told not to wander during the night."

Bart returned his head to the forward position and continued on. John just stood there.

Krissa had warned him, over and over. But there was a massive difference between being told then experiencing it for ones self. As CO of an entire city, it was his natural inclination to seek out the details of what happened and try to prevent it in the future. But this wasn't his world, his house, his competition, or his rules. And it was only his concern as far as Krissa was concerned. A cold fact to swallow for a man of action who was sick and tired of the unknowable. Perhaps if he discovered a little something during his stay here to give to Avril's protectors, it might do, but it was as far as he could go without leaving Krissa vulnerable

John finally moved and went the rest of the way down into the dungeon. Bart was waiting by the door when he reached it. John fished the key card from his pocket and swiped it through the slot of the lock. Blue turned to yellow, and the door clicked open.

The moment John walked in, Krissa dropped what she was doing and hurried up to him, wide-eyed and fretting.

" John! You're here. Thank goodness. Did you hear what happened to Mr. Avril? The man that attacked you last night?"

John jerked a thumb at Bart. " I got the gist. Guess you weren't kidding about how bad things could get."

" Actually, I was never certain if they were true either. The only certainty was Savine."

" Do you think she did it?"

Krissa chewed her lip thoughtfully. " I wouldn't hold it past her. Could have been anyone though." She moved back to the table and picked up a mini-welder. She gestured with it as she spoke. " Avril dealt in chemicals, but I over heard Mr. Krem – the small, round man – say that Avril had been looking into diseases and their possible creation."

 _Bio-terrorist, goody!_ John was feeling slightly less empathetic for the man chosen to be number one on an unknown's hit list.

" Savine could have easily seen his work as a threat since some bio-science involves working with viruses." Krissa hunched over what appeared to be a tiny circuit board, welding two small wires together. John moved to the table to watch while distant enough not to be hovering.

John raised is eyebrows in admiration. " You did all that today?"

" Mm, don't be impressed quite yet. This is just a nick in the mountain. The first component."

The welder sparked, fusing more wires. She took some small tweezers and lifted a pea-sized chip from a petri dish and set it in the center of the circuit board.

" If I may ask," John said. " I mean, if it's safe to ask as long as the walls don't have ears or anything, what's your present clutter going to be turned into anyways?"

Krissa touched the tiny chip along the edges with the tip of the welder, and smiled. " It's safe, we scanned the room. Scanners are my specialty. So are transmission scramblers. What I'm doing now will be my ultimate work – a combination of both. Not only will it be able to detect energy readings from beneath illusion shields such as the one Diavante has surrounding us, it can also temporarily disable shields to allow weapons fire or even people to go through."

A vice seemed to tighten around John's chest. " A shield scrambler."

" In a word. It's really called the Sil."

" Sil?"

" It's a small, wriggly insect that can burrow through anything, even metal, using acid. They can get into anything, like my device."

" Oh," John said in a voice one octave too high. Sounded enough like a highly useful, and very probably coveted, device. And therein lay the dilemma. Useful for who? " Um, you know, a device like that could be pretty dangerous if the wrong people got it. You know, like the wraith..."

Krissa paused in her welding. " I know."

" But you're not worried?"

She went back to welding. " I am. But I've designed it with fail safes. To use it, a certain code must be keyed in, an ID code. For a wraith to use it, they would have to grab one before it is calibrated to a specific user or users. Also, the components are rare, so not many will be made – five, at most. Divante will want one for himself, and there's the prototype. The rest will be auctioned – not to the wraith, of course."

Not even a smidge of comfort in that. " Hey, there's more than one kind of bad guy besides the wraith," John said. " I know, I've met them. You know the Genii? They hate my people. And then there's these guys called the Cyladrans who I wouldn't sell a Genii too. Well, maybe Koyla... but that's beside the point. People like them, they'd use a device like yours against people like me – my people."

Krissa did another pause, this time straightening to look up at John. " Would your people be willing to purchase a sil? I'll have no say – or presence – at the auction so I can't pick and choose who gets what. But your people could try. Should Divante accept what I create, and sell it, you could be one of the buyers. Another feature is that the sils counter eachother – like how the same ends of magnets repel eachother. If you were to have one, you'd be able to stop others from using their own against you."

John perked at this. It was a thought. Better if such a device wasn't created at all, but being able to own one had its merits – such as wreaking havoc to a Cyladran shield.

" Sounds like a plan. What would it take to purchase one?"

" Something unique. Rare metals, pieces of technology..."

 _The ability to use Ancient devices._ John doubted Weir – or Beckett – would be up to sharing the secrets of administering the ATA gene, but keeping the gate shield from becoming useless could end up demanding a few technological sacrifices.

Krissa returned to the creation of her circuit board. " I just hope this one works better. My first was a little finicky. You had to move fast to get through the shield, but I've tweeked it since then."

" Why build a new one? Why not present the prototype?"

" This one'll look prettier. You get points for aesthetics."

The day wore on monotonously with Krissa glued to the table as she welded, fitted, molded, and wired odds and ends together. Bren helped by retrieving and writing pointers on his pad. Bart remained standing by the door, and left only once to retrieve their lunches from the kitchen. The lab was complete with a bathroom, so it wasn't like any of the party were forced to leave the room for any reason. John occupied himself by wandering, peering out the little square window into the dungeon to see who came and went, and challenging himself with mental math puzzles. Tomorrow, he was bringing his deck of cards – if the washer women or whoever had thought to take them out of his vest.

The evening meal came to Krissa unaware, who jumped at the sound of the chimes. John just sighed and mentally thanked the heavens.

It was a quieter dinner by far. Suspicious glances were exchanged, a few casual remarks to start a conversation only to have it peeter out, and the on again/off again scrutiny of John by one of the Genii goons. John kept his face close to his food and turned slightly away.

The table was lacking in a couple of diners.

 _One down, crap-load more to go._

With the meal complete, Krissa's party went back to the room. John's vest and shirt were folded neatly on the couch, with a small basket containing the items from the vest beside it – cards included.

" Tomorrow, I'll begin the casing for the device," Krissa said. " Best to get that out of the way now. And I'll need that piece of amber crystal in the lock box, Bren. You still have the key, right?"

Bren stopped fixing his 'bed' to pat the pocket of his jacket. Krissa, dressed in a navy-blue nightgown and combing her hair, beamed.

" Good. If you'll give me your clothes, Mr. Sheppard, I can fix them tonight. I need something to do until I'm tired."

John passed the clothes off to Krissa when she had put away her brush. She padded on bare feet into the bed chamber, then jumped onto the bed, pulling a small alabaster box toward her, and removing a needle and thread.

John had his bed made, but just sat on it. Tonight, he was taking first watch. Bart had another fire going and was adding wood from a basket beside the hearth.

When the time for sleep came, John grabbed his deck, slid from the couch to the floor, and started up a game of solitaire.

The fire popped, snapped, and hissed. After one game of solitaire, John stood to loosen his stiff muscles and stirred the fire with a poker that wavered the thin shield that was strong enough only to hold back the sparks. He then went back to his spot for a second round. Bren was snoring softly, and Bart sounded as though he were purring like a content kitten.

John smirked a lop-sided grin. _To each his own snores._

Over the softer sounds he heard it, which he probably shouldn't have been able to, but it was as though it wanted to be heard.

Whispers, or unnatural breathing – John couldn't tell. He strained his hearing toward the sound like following a fishing line in the dark.

" _John."_

John jumped, his heart jumping painfully with him, and the cards flipping from his hands to flutter to the floor in a 42 pickup mess. He fixed his eyes on the door. The next sound was a rush of air like a deliberate exhale from a heavy chest. Another, then another, then a sharper breath released with a _whuff_.

John's heart did another wild thud that sent prickles of electricity numbing his spine. The door was locked, the room secure with devices, but John still felt the need to move slowly as he reached for his gun and slid it from the holster. In the same drawn-out motion, he crept on hands and knees toward the door. He wasn't stupid as to risk opening it. He laid himself on the floor and pressed the side of his face into the cold stone between the carpet and entrance. The crack was an inch wide, and solid black as a line of ink.

He could hear the breaths sharp as though they were right smack next to him, but no whispers. John slowed his own breaths.

 _Hello?_ His throat refused to expel the solitary word. _Here little puppy._ He couldn't see a damn thing, and needed his light.

The breathing stopped, and John's own stopped with it to hear better.

Suddenly, there was a snarl, and something flashed beneath the door, quick as lightning, sparking the stone where it struck. John snapped his head back in time before it got his face, and the only remnant of its existence were three deep gouges in the stone.

John scrambled backward, rising, falling, then rising again until he reached the couch. He grabbed his P-90 from beneath his 'bed' and rushed back to the door. This time, he kept a foot between him and the barrier. He was back on his side with the light of his weapon stabbing the ink to illuminate the carpet of the corridor. John moved that light up and down, but nothing was revealed. Whatever had been there was gone.

John's heart felt capable of exploding at its current rate. He did another scramble from the door, back peddling farther and father until his spine met the wall - sweat soaking him, body shaking, and lungs heaving out pants. He kept his gun on that door.

Around him, Bren, Bart, and Krissa slept on.

Cool air like a cold breath snaked through the collar of John's shirt to caress his back with ice. It made him cringe in sudden disgust, loathing it, but incapable of stopping it.

" _Jooooohn."_

TBC...


	16. Games

It must have been a one time thing. John hoped it was a one time thing, but hope wasn't a promise and did nothing to help his sleep. Nothing heard by the others, nothing seen in full by John – it could have been passed off as a dream. But then there were those three gouges in the stone. No denying those.

After that night, John took nothing but first watch, stretching it as long as he could, just to wait and see. Nothing since, no whispers, not even the soft tread of feet trying to pad by without notice. The nights stayed quiet after that.

Neither Bren nor Krissa took it lightly, but being the realists that they were, knew there was little to be done except wait and see if it happened again. Bart, as always, was impassive and cryptic in saying " these things happen." John pressed him for better insight, but the creature was vague on the details, replying only that each party had their 'ways' of dealing with another party.

Days passed, the majority of which were spent in the lab. John was back in his shirt and vest, stitched to a perfection as though they'd never been torn. He was wise this time around to always bring his deck of cards, and idled the hours with solitaire and attempting to erect a house of cards that never got past a single story. Bren kept occupied by helping Krissa. Bart was content just to stand around. At times, John caught the creature dozing on its feet. Lunch was usually taken in the lab, but for a simple break in routine, they would take it in the dining hall, or outside when the clouds finally broke and the sun was allowed to blaze through.

Where ever Krissa went, Bren and John went, and vice versa, Bart always trailing behind. Bren was insistent on taking care of the vrat himself, which provided something else to do besides sitting around a moldy lab. Feeding, grooming, walking, and the periodic riding by Krissa – the thing was more horse than the shaggy nags.

The evening meal was proving interesting to John. Since Avril's disappearance, the atmosphere had gone from chatty and tense, to mute and nervous. Suspicious looks was all that was exchanged, and any conversation that came into being was kept within the party, low-toned and conspiratorial.

Each night, the Genii protector's gaze altered just a fraction. Curious, quizzical, recalling, narrow-eyed suspicion, and then all out dislike. The second protector and the scientist were completely oblivious to this visual progression. John tried not to return the gaze, but kept watch out of the corner of his eye.

The watching bled over to simple passing by through the dungeon or outside.

In terms of casual encounters, the rarest encounter was with Savine. Once in a while one of the Mad Max crew might make an appearance – that Vice fellow still limping and trying not to show it – but never the old bat. It wasn't anything that John could count among the good or the bad. Maybe she was up to something, or maybe she was busy doing the mad scientist gig – more than likely the two were going hand in hand. Both Krissa and Bren also found it something to be extra wary about.

Five days, six days, seven, a week, a week and a half. No one else pulled a vanishing act. Neither was anyone making eye contact with anyone else, though that Genii kept attempting to with John. Dislike was turning into loathing, John could feel it oozing off the man like a heat wave.

Good times weren't an expectation, but they did manage to find a way to slip in.

Day four of the second week was drawing to a close, and the residents were allowed to witness it if they just looked out any given window. John did as he set out the cards on the carpeted floor of the parlor. The sky was cloud free and painted yellow, pink, and violet along the tree line. Krissa had picked a good day, and a good time, to call it quits for the evening.

Atlantis sunsets were better, blazing at the horizon, fading from color to color, cutting golden paths through the water and stretching on into forever when viewed from the right balcony. Then the stars would follow, beginning at where the ocean ended, pin pricks of light thrown across the black with wild abandon. John had just begun mapping and naming constellations, though no one seemed willing to except the constellations Pinky and the Brain.

But sunsets were sunsets, and stars were stars. John settled for being thankful enough just to see both after the constant gray ceiling hovering like an empty threat. Krissa explained it was just the way of the weather of this world. Days of clouds with no rain, then eventually clouds with too much rain. But not for some time more.

Bren made his rounds checking each of the devices placed about the room. Bart added more wood to the fire, after which passing its clawed paw over a small panel that caused the little shield to rise, flicking pink and blue whenever a stray ember got lose. Krissa hummed to herself as she combed out her hair. It was passed the evening meal, but still too early for bed.

Not that John had any prospects of going to sleep. Sleep always did have something against him, and being in this place didn't help.

The unpredictability of dreams – recent dreams especially – was always to blame.

" Mr. Bart?" Krissa said, doing a small skip and a hop to her humming. Bart's insistence that Krissa forgo the use of 'mister' when referring to Bart seemed always to land on deaf ears, until Bart just finally gave up. " Would it be too much trouble for us to have some tea. Wyen tea preferably? And some dipped rolls?"

Bart sniffed. " Of course, Miss Krissa."

Bart scurried from the room. Krissa, meandering and humming, wandered over to John and went quiet as she watched him play.

She pointed at the cards with her brush. " Are there other games you can play with those?"

John looked up at her and smiled. He'd been waiting – hoping - for someone to ask him that. He scooped the rows up and shuffled them back into the deck.

" Why, yes, yes there is," he said, still shuffling and grinning. " Tons, loads, crap loads. Poker, Gin Rummy, War, Egyptian War, Go Fish..."

Krissa beamed then crouched to the floor, folding her legs beneath her until they vanished under the heavy night gown. " Could you teach me one? I have games of my own, but..."

" They're boring now that you've played them a thousand times," John finished, dividing the deck then flipping them back together. " Yeah, we can start with an easy one. Go Fish. You wanna play, Bren? Swear I'll go easy on you both since you're new to this."

Bren ambled over and sat more deliberately than his young charge, with joints popping and muscles creaking. He sat with legs crossed Indian style and arms draped over his knees. John handed out the cards as he explained the rules. Krissa and Bren proved quick learners, not to John's surprise.

Bart returned carrying a silver tray holding a silver tea-pot (that looked more modern day art deco than Victorian), cups, and a bowl of glazed rolls.

" Care to join us, Bart?" John asked. Bart set the tray by the little group. He regarded the cards and the players with a massive, overwhelming lack of interest. Then again, it wasn't like he expressed much else, so there was no real reading the vulture visage.

" It would be an imposition, Mr. Sheppard, seeing as how you have already begun."

John snorted. " Imposition my butt. It's freakin' go fish, and we barely started. Come on, more players makes it more interesting and I can tell you about the other games. Poker, now there's a card game..."

He took the cards, shuffled them, then redistributed. Krissa poured the tea and passed out the cups on their large saucers where the rolls could be placed. Outside, yellow and pink faded until it was only violet melting into navy blue. Stars pricked the skies, stopped dead by the serrated tree line before reaching the horizon. John explained the game of poker, its intricacies, and Krissa listened with rapt attention. After poker, he explained the other games he knew of – or at least recalled the best. He even explained solitaire.

When the tea and rolls were gone, and the next game finished, the sky was perfectly black, and Krissa was yawning until her jaw popped. John gathered up the cards and tapped them together on the tray.

" We'll try something else tomorrow," he said.

Kirssa rose stiffly to her feet and stretched. " That was fun. I would really like to play that poker game you talked about."

John twisted his mouth uncertainly. " Really? It's not really a kid's game."

Krissa grinned. " Well, I'm not really a kid. Well, like most kids. Please Mr. Sheppard?"

John gave her a heavy-lidded look. " Yeah, right, not like most kids. You're like my sister when she was a kid. All she had to do was say _please_ in that sweet 'I'm all innocent' little girl voice of hers and everyone would be all over her like peasants sucking up to a queen. Truth was, she was a little hell raiser and only I knew it." Even though he'd done his share of fawning. The child had been 'little princess' to the skin, and diva to the core. The last John heard, even as an adult, she still was. John waved his hand. " Yeah, sure."

Krissa bounced on her toes, then composed herself, smoothing her nightgown. " Excellent. It really does sound like fun."

John stood and arched his back until it cracked. " Dang, I really need to adopt a better way to sit. I hope whatever was in that tea doesn't have me passing out after two hours."

Krissa, heading to the bed chamber, stopped and turned. She was worried, John could see it covering every inch of her face.

" You're taking first watch again?"

John furrowed his brow. " Yeah."

Krissa clenched the sides of her gown in her fists. John hadn't seen her that nervous since John had officially positioned himself as one of her protectors.

" It's just... You shouldn't take so long watching. You should switch off with Bren more."

John sat on the couch to remove his boots and give his feet some breathing room. " Why? What we do works out fine. Besides, I'm not much of a sleeper anyways."

Krissa chewed her lip. " Well, even so, you should sleep more. It's not healthy if you don't."

John halted in pulling the laces of his second boot.

 _Great. Beckett has discovered telepathy and is relaying instructions to Krissa._ John let let out a slow breath.

" So I've heard, more than once." _Over and over until my hands were inches from Carson's throat._ And darned if both doc and genius child weren't right.

Krissa was back to chewing her lip. She fidgeted with the need to say more, and John waited. Instead, she turned and hurried into the bed chamber.

John felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned his head to see the data pad being held out to him.

 _She's worried. Thinks you aren't sleeping well._

John looked up at Bren. " Why would she think that?"

Bren typed.

 _Have you seen yourself lately?_

John had. There were plenty of mirrors around to prevent him from avoiding it, plus the mirror in the shaving kit that had been present in the bathroom when they arrived. He saw nothing he wasn't already used to, except an increase of pallor to his face and shadows beneath his eyes.

Bren typed again.

 _She's also been monitoring you with the bio-scanner when you weren't looking._

John started in surprise. " Wait, I'm confused. Who's supposed to be taking care of who here?"

Bren typed, a little longer this time.

 _It's shared. We protect her, she takes care of us. She does it to me all the time. Doesn't know I know. I always say, she has a lot of brains, but even more heart. She feels responsible for us both. You even more. You saved us, volunteered to protect without being asked, despite dangers. She does not want anything to happen to you as a result._

John nodded, handed the pad back, then dropped his head into his hands.

" Ah crap!" He lifted his head to look at Bren. " She really, _really_ needs to get it through her head that it's what I do; protect, guard, defend. Honor, serve, protect, whatever. Doesn't matter who or what, it's part of my job, and it's a job I try to do with every molecule in me. Hell, it's freakin' second nature. I just do it, half the time without thinking except to think about a strategy. I'm not the one she should be worrying about. I'm just a grunt, expendable, _meant_ to be expendable."

Bren typed.

 _I do not know what a 'grunt' is, but I do know Krissa. Nothing you say will convince her otherwise. No one is expendable to her. I have protected her for years, and she has been there for me in turn. She will do what she can to be there for you._

" Not at the expense of nearly getting killed though, right?"

 _She is not naïve. She knows risking herself is risking us as well. But she has pushed limits in her attempt at helping._ _I do think you should listen to her, get more sleep, keep watches shorter between us. You can take first, but only for two hours. Tea should kick in by then._

John glanced up. Bren was grinning.

John released a sharp breath and returned the grin with a feeble one of his own. " Cool by me."

" _Joooohn."_

" _Atlantis, John."_

" _Tell me, please tell me."_

A touch slid like cold oil over John's mind, coating his brain, sliding down his neck, slipping along his spine, caressing him...

It was like someone was petting him. Good little Sheppard. Always be a good little John. Good boy.

He hated it, hated it more than he hated the wraith, the Genii, the Cyladrans. It made him sick, afraid, like he was being covered in filth. He cringed, shrank back, squirmed, arched. He slammed back, pressed his spine into the cushion and his head into the pillow. Fear made him whimper and gasp, anger made him mentally snarl and rage. His fingers sought his back beneath the shirt intent on ripping the skin and pulling what slid over him from his body. But there was more cloth in the way, too tight to tear.

 _Get out get out get out get out! You Stupid... GET OOOOUUUTTTT!_

The cold fingers of ice were yanked from him, and he gasped again at the pain of it. There was a weight on his shoulders, increasing in pressure, and his upper body shook.

He snapped his eyes open to the frightened face of Bren. John gasped again, then his breath fell into heavy pants. Cool air touched him and he shivered. He pushed himself to his elbows, and Bren helped him the rest of the way into sitting up. The old man snatched his pad from his pocket and typed quickly away.

In that small space of time, John's mind slunk from the dream haze to assess the physical. The racing heart, free-flowing sweat, and clothes pasted to John like a second skin. Bren showed John the pad.

 _You were breathing fast. Panting. Pulse was rapid. Moaned, moved around, almost fell from couch, shaking. Nightmare?_

John glanced around fearfully. Touching – he could have sworn something was... was what? Touching, petting, burrowing like a worm into his mind, so real he rubbed his back to try and remove its remnant. It had been – in a word, more than one word – disgusting, revolting, violating. Nothing of a sexual connotation, just intrusive and unnatural.

A violation of soul rather than body, and it lingered. Bile burned in John's throat, and he had to swallow four times before it finally relented to going back down.

John eventually nodded. " Yeah, bad dream. I – um... I get a lot of those, sometimes."

He looked up at Bren. " T-thanks for getting me out of it." He gave Bren a wan smile not even John believed. But the gratitude was genuine. There had been no pulling himself out of that tangibility. He continued to rub his back, then moved up to his neck, shivering.

Bren typed; _What was the dream?_

" You really don't want to know. Hell, I don't want to know and I'm the lucky SOB who got to experience it."

 _You're watch?_

John dropped back onto his pillow. " Not much of a choice now."

John was starting to follow Bart's example, and nod off during Krissa's hours of Sil assembling. His eyelids would grow a few pounds heavier, attempt to slide close, then snap open at the sensation of falling when John's chin dropped to his chest. He cajoled Bart into a few games of go fish, but the creature refused to get into the game, and quit after two rounds, using the excuse that it needed to be at the ready should Krissa need anything.

John had the more distinct impression that Bart was uncomfortable about playing card games. It wasn't an outright discomfort, but he seemed less indifferent than usual while playing. John couldn't figure the reasoning behind it.

Another day, another few parts added to Krissa's device, and another mundane dinner full of tense silence and subtle watching. Only that one Genii protector was more forth right, now staring directly at John, refusing to hide his intent.

The jig was up. The man had either placed the uniform, or the face. John hoped uniform. His face tended to inspire deeper hatred among the Genii.

When the evening meal was over, the small party made their way to the room.

" Do we play today?" Krissa asked. " I've brought some discarded bits of metal and parts we could use as chips."

Krissa was moving quick to keep up with John's long-legged strides as they moved to the stairs. John, hands in his pocket and P-90 thumping his uninjured side, grinned.

" Yeah, yeah, we'll play. I don't think your family's going to be too happy that some stranger taught you how to gamble, though."

" You're not a stranger, and it's not like we're playing for anything important, just parts. I'd never bet anything important."

" Smart girl."

They were to the stairs, and Krissa was already hurrying up in an uncontained show of youthful exuberance.

" Atlantean!"

John heard the shout, but his mind moved faster than his reactions, and kept him from turning around and acknowledging the designation.

Krissa, on the other hand, was none the wiser, and turned her head.

" Just keep going," John said under his breath. " Don't pay any attention."

" Atlantean! I'm speaking to you!"

Bren shot a warning glare over his shoulder.

" Not you, old man, or you _thing_. I want that tall, _skinny,_ Atlantean to face me right now!"

Cheap shot. Very cheap shot. John grinned and stepped onto the stairs behind Krissa. 'Ignore them and they'll go away' didn't always work, but there was a vindictive satisfaction to it none the less.

" _Atlantean! Stop or I will shoot!"_

Now that was difficult to ignore. The party stopped. John turned slowly, Bren more quickly bringing up his rifle. The Genii protector was alone with his gun raised and his eyes smoldering. Sweat dewed on the man's forehead and his breath was coming fast. Anger blended in with a little fear. It might have been safe to assume the Genii was acting on his own accord and not through orders, but John wasn't going to give in to assumptions.

" What's an Atlantean?" John said. The Genii stalked forward in long, angry strides until he was two feet from John with the barrel of the gun right in the Colonel's face.

" Do not play stupid with me," he snarled with his lip curled. " I know what you are. I've seen your people before. I would know you no matter what, no matter where. You... You _Lanteans_... You're the reason my brother is dead!"

He struck John across the face with the weapon, knocking him to the floor. John could have reacted – _should_ have, actually – but his reaction time had chosen that moment to go AWOL on him. Stars flashed in his eyes, and blood pooled metallic and foul in his mouth. He spat the blood onto the stone floor between the stairs and the carpet.

" John! Are you all right?" Krissa crouched beside him and took his arm to help him up. Before rising, John looked back to see the Genii being held back at rifle-point by Bren. Bart was impassive as always.

" You're dead, Lantean!" The Genii screamed. " You will not survive here! I will make sure of it!"

John stood and wiped his mouth. " You'll have to get in line."

He started up the stairs with Krissa still holding onto his arm, watching him anxiously as though he might topple at any moment. Bart followed, and Bren lingered and started up backwards to keep his gun trained on the Genii.

" You're dead!" the man screamed.

Krissa winced. " Why is he so mad at you? Do you know that man?"

John chuckled dryly. " I know his people – in a way that I'm not on good standing with them."

" May I ask – though it's not really my business, I know – but may I ask why?"

" They tried to invade Atlantis," John said. " And I stopped them."

Enough said. Krissa quirked both eyebrows. " Ah."

Once they reached the safety of the room, Krissa had Bart get a wet cloth and John sitting down as she looked over his jaw and the cut on his lip. Bart returned with the cloth, which Krissa took it and pressed it into John's hand to hold to the assaulted spot on his face.

" I guess this means no game?" she asked sheepishly.

John gave her his best lop-sided grin. " Wouldn't dream of passing up a game that's already in the bag."

" Huh?"

John shook his head. " Never mind. You'll see."

Bart was sent for more tea, and the game commenced when he returned. Krissa soon learned the meaning behind John's odd phrase. She'd grasped the concept easily enough, just not the skill of poker faces. Bren got the hang of it eventually, but Bart was the real master, which was why he ended up winning most of the nuts, bolts, screws, and scraps.

Krissa was content enough just to be playing, but her time eventually came. Hers was an intellect of numbers, possibilities, and problem solving - and though she couldn't hold a poker face if her life depended on it, she knew a winning hand when she had one.

The game ended when the vast majority of the 'chips' went to Bart.

" Gee, Bart, try not to rub it in so hard," John said at the complete lack of enthusiasm on the creature's face. John gathered the cards together and tapped them into place.

" I find no joy in winning scrap, Mr. Sheppard," Bart replied, gathering the bits back into the small bag.

" Well you don't have to rub that in either. Come on, you won four games in a row. Plenty of reason to act like a sore winner and brag."

" If you say so, sir."

Krissa, who'd vanished into the bed chamber to get ready for bed, came out again carrying a smooth black box about a hand-span in length and width. " Mr. Sheppard? Since it's still early, I would like to show you one of my favorite games."

John tucked the deck of cards into the pocket of his vest draped over the arm of the couch. " Sure."

" In here, we need a bigger table."

John rose stiffly and followed Krissa into the bed chamber. In the corner was a medium, round table with a chair. Krissa pulled up another of the red padded chairs, then slid the top off the box. Inside glittered hundreds of small, round crystal stones of blue, violet, and transparent. Krissa scooped them out, set them aside, then flipped the lid over to slide it back into place. It was like a chess-board, but with smaller and more numerous squares.

" It's called Cux. It's a game of strategy," Krissa said. " Very difficult, but fun when you get the hang of it."

Her explanation made it sound like an advanced version of chess, with a lot more possible moves. Purple went at the front, then blue, then clear. Krissa made the first move by placing a clear stone at the front before the purple stones.

" You're not sleeping well," she stated after five minutes of silence.

John moved one of the purple stones a square. " Wow, so blunt. I really look that bad?"

Krissa moved a clear crystal and twitched a small, abashed smile. " S-sort of. I – um – I've heard you sometimes, the way you wake up. And... Bren is kind of worried. He said it was because of bad dreams. I get bad dreams sometimes. They're hard to wake up from, and make it hard to go back to sleep."

John slid a blue stone four squares. He didn't reply, just studied Krissa and her discomfort in her attempt at pulling a Heightmeyer.

" Yeah, that's bad dreams for you."

Krissa sent a blue stone of her own five squares. " Mine are usually about Savine. She's always chasing me with something – usually a gun. What are your dreams about?"

John shrugged, and moved a clear stone. " Can't really describe them. And – to tell you the truth – I don't think you should hear about them. Might not be suitable for people under thirteen. Plus bad dreams aren't strangers to me. I get one kind, then I get another."

Although his recent batch of badness was just plain sickening, even with nothing to see. He was drawing close to wanting to see Menk smirking at him rather than feel what his dreams were having him feel.

" That's not right," Krissa said, moving a blue stone within range of John's violet stones. " It'll make you sick."

" I think it already has." John moved a violet stone in range of Krissa's set. Krissa kept her eyes on the bored, chewing her lip. She was already aware, maybe more than John.

" Not that badly," she said. " But, it'll get worse."

" Been there, done that. Oh, and I'm aware of you scanning me behind my back."

Krissa took one of John's violet crystals. " I knew you'd find out. Or Bren told you."

John pointed a finger at her. " See, I always took you for the type to know that I know that you know what Bren knows... Face it, we're all too clever for eachother. But you shouldn't worry about me. I'm here to watch out for you. And you need to face facts – there's a chance that either me or even Bren might not..."

" Don't." A simple statement, not too loud, not too soft, but with a force behind it that made John fumble his next move, and cause the crystal to slide from the board.

Krissa's eyes shimmered with held back moisture.

 _John you're a cold, reptilian SOB. Rodney was right on with the whole snake issue._ " Krissa, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be that dang... _forward_ about it..."

" It's okay," she cut in. " You're right. But how else am I supposed to think? I don't want to think as the other scientists do. They don't care about the people protecting them. They're aware that they might not survive. I'm aware too, but it doesn't mean I have to like it. There's also a chance that nothing'll happen to you both, and I would like to help that chance any way I can. You're not just a protector, John, you're my friend. Friends worry about eachother. And if you get sick, then the chance of you surviving will decrease. I'm not worried about myself, because I also have Bren. I'm protected by two. But it's not right that you should be hurt – or even killed – because you are not well. It's okay to have someone to watch out for you, too."

John pushed a clear crystal forward. " Krissa, you have to understand something. I... pretty much do whatever it takes when it comes to – you know – _protecting_. If my team were here, they'd tell you. I was willing to die to save Atlantis, and if any situation came down to having me dead so that everyone else can live – I _will_ go that far. I _will_ do what it takes. You can't always watch out for everyone."

 _Now why does that sound so freakin' familiar?_ It was true – words really could sink in after the right amount of time and repetition.

Krissa fiddled with a violet crystal in her fingers. " Doesn't mean you can't try."

John coughed out an abrupt, short-lived laugh. " Yeah, it doesn't." Then he had a thought. " Why do you care so much?"

Krissa moved a clear crystal. " Why do you?"

John grinned. " I once told someone – when I wanted to go rescue some of our people captured by the wraith – that it was the right thing to do."

Krissa looked up to smile back. " Now you know why."

" Wow, you really are smart."

Krissa moved one more piece. " Apparently; because I just won."

John looked at the board, contemplated the moves made, and laughed.

TBC...


	17. Harsh Conditions

" _Jooooohhhnn."_

Oil on the brain. Firm pressure on his shoulder, like a vice.

John bolted up with a harsh gasp that shredded his throat. The pressure on his bare shoulder remained firm against him trying to jerk his limb free, and his other shoulder soon suffered the same sensation. John blinked sweat and tears from his eyes, sucking in air and heaving it out with his chest straining against the bandages on each intake.

In the dusky light of the fire, John gradually registered Bren's dark-angled face outlined by orange. Bren's grip was solid, unrelenting, but gentle. He stared into John's face with the patience a father might have for a terrified child. The fire of the parlor didn't defeat the drafts that managed to worm their way in through the old mansion. Cool air touching John's exposed, sweat-drenched back escalated his shivering.

He'd chucked wearing a shirt to bed since he pretty much always ended up having to wash it the next morning. With or without one, he kept waking up cold.

The oil in his brain, the fingers prodding, burrowing, and caressing his mind, slid from him with a reluctance that made him want to puke. He dropped his head against Bren's own shoulder, and gulped back the burning liquid crawling up his throat.

" Sorry Bren," he rasped. Bren pushed him back into sitting, then removed one hand to type on the pad.

 _They're worse?_

John, his breathing minimized, shook his head. " No. They're the same. Always... Always the freakin' same." He rolled his shoulder. The tendrils of oil seemed to want to linger along his spine. He'd done his best to describe them to Bren – the voice for the most part. The rest was too damn embarrassing to go into.

 _Something's touching me, and lately I've not been too fond of being touched._ Being violated would have been a better word. This constant invasion of inner space was sickening.

Bren typed: _Will you try the medicine now?_

Krissa had offered to make John a medicative Sriotian tea that was supposed to have the effectiveness of one of Beckett's magic sleeping pills if John determined Krissa's description of it right. John shook his head again.

" No. I told you, it's too dangerous. You need to be able to wake me up in case something happens. Besides, I know from experience medicine doesn't always stop the dreams."

Bren nodded and typed some more. _I understand. But this is making you ill."_

John put his hand to his face, then ran his fingers through his sweat-slicked hair. " I know. But it's not like it's unfamiliar territory either. Damnit, why is this happening?" he gasped, and shuddered. Wraith dreams, Genii dreams, Cy dreams, dreams of becoming bugs, and dreams _of_ bugs – those he got. Waking to alarms in his head, screams, cries of pain was what normally passed for sweat drenching bolts into the waking world.

John could give no name to what marred his mind during the night. Somehow, though – despite the lack of imagery, being a dream of sensation – it was starting to top his list of the worst of all dreams by far.

Bren showed John the pad. _Don't know. Wish I did._ Bren then patted John's shoulder and stood. John fell back against his pillow and rolled onto his uninjured side. Sweat had soaked into the bandages. Not like he really needed them anymore, except for his ribs which still reacted violently whenever he forgot how tender they were.

Countless days of this crap, off and on, coming even when he didn't let his guard down. Some nights he slept without incident, and like the occasional scrap of food tossed to the starving man, the uninterrupted sleep kept John on his feet. But the setbacks were creeping in, sometimes in the form of slowed reaction time, but mostly as a soreness in his limbs, a throbbing in his head, and an increasing and annoying itch in his chest. Not even his appetite was being spared, especially because there was no getting used to neon blue peas.

John had stopped counting days to determine weeks and such. The passage of time, for him, was in Krissa's progression with the Sil. It was coming together nicely according to her, and had now reached the point where it had a form other than being a mess of parts strewed on the table. Cylindrical, black, with two access panels on either end. When quitting time came, she would lock it in a special case brought from home, the kind with a lock requiring an eye-scan to open.

John rolled back onto his back when his healthy side began to protest by aching. He passed both hands over his face, then through his hair, stopping at the crown of his skull. His eyes darted to the fire when it blazed. Bart was stoking it, its head swiveled one eighty on its neck to look at John with its never ending indifference.

" What?" John asked without expectation of an answer.

Adhering to expectation, Bart swiveled its neck back around to stare into the flames. As much as the creature's nonchalance amused John with countless hours of trying to get the thing to react, most of the time it just creeped him out.

John dropped his arms, heaved a breath, and coughed. He still had an hour – according to his watch – before he took the next shift. He rolled his head to the void-black window, and found a modicum of comfort at not being able to see anything. He couldn't explain why, just that the darkness was like a wall, reminding him that he was not out there, where the not so pleasant wild things were.

John's eyes slid closed, more by force. Firelight writhed through his eyelids.

Maybe that's what took the Genii soldier. Since the little spat, the man had gone missing the very next day, and the majority of suspicious scowls were being geared toward Krissa's party. John wasn't about to take the blame should he be confronted, but until such time, he found no qualms in letting people sweat under the assumption. It was keeping the rivals at bay.

A howl like a trumpet cross-bred with a lion's roar rose tempered by distance but still strong enough to rattle the window. John opened his eyes, then ponderously sat up with head tilted to one side, listening. Glancing over at Bren, the older man was rigid as a tree, staring darkly at the window. The roar rose, just a little, in pitch, then drifted off into a single howling echo. Silence returned thicker than before, even with the fire popping.

Bren looked at John, and John continued to stare at Bren.

" What was that?" John asked, keeping his voice low though he didn't know why.

Bren shook his head and shrugged. Both looked at Bart. Bart was turned away with its back to them, stabbing the wood glowing with hell-fire until the flames sparked and hissed. " Things of the woods," it said without looking away, as though the flames were all that mattered in the world.

The roar came again, closer, more powerful, vibrating the window until the reflections in the glass pulsed. At the same time it was joined by another - farther away - and another just as close. John's heart slammed and he scrabbled backwards off of the couch and onto the floor back first as though the emitter of that howl had been right next to him. He managed to grab his P-90 but couldn't get to his feet until Bren grabbed his arm and hauled him up. The two men faced the window with weapons raised. The howls kept coming - rising, falling, rising again, joined by snarls, or sometimes ending abruptly.

Krissa bolted from the bed chamber, panting in whimpering breaths of terror. " What is that?"

Bren held his arm out to her, then placed it around her shoulders to bring her in close between him and John.

" We don't know," John said between fast coming breaths. Bart remained planted before the fire with a blanket wrapped around its small body.

" We are safe here," Bart said.

The three were stationed in the center of the room. John had the window, and Bren shot anxious looks to the door.

" You sure about that?" John countered. The howls kept coming, closer, farther, louder, quieter. They were all over the place.

Bart gave the fire another stab so that it flared. " Quite."

The howls became less scattered, and more subdued as space was put between the noise and the parlor. Eventually they drifted, becoming trumpeting reverberations.

Then they stopped as though someone had finally hit the mute button. The only noise remaining was harsh breathing and the crack of a prodded fire, rising like a beast seeking the weak spot of its cage.

John refused to lower his P-90, and Bren was showing the same stubbornness.

" That," John said between pants, " is pretty damn good incentive for never going to sleep at night."

SGASGASGASGA

" You sure this is a good idea?" John said. He scuffed the pebbled path that wound through the garden with his boot, and eyed the pounds of ivy that buried the wall it grew on with unhidden mistrust. There were places big enough to hide a body – species unimportant. The garden seemed the only exterior part of the mansion – besides the stables – that was well kept. The garden of _The Secret Garden_ it could have been, except that flowers were sadly lacking. It was mostly well-trimmed hedges, trees, a few dead fountains, and plants John couldn't even describe. Out of the center of the garden rose a massive green-house where most of the flowers could be found. At least that's how it seemed when Krissa and John moved in close for a peek. The place was locked, and both were in agreement that it was better observed from the outside if this was where Savine kept her mutant plants.

Thinking of the wicked witch, her lack of presence was just as unnerving as the thick ivy and hedges. The woman and her three goons, including the gimpy Vice, made quick and occasional appearances during the evening meal, but were next to being ghosts the rest of the time. John had seen - during walks such as now, and while traipsing the halls for whatever reason – a rare glimpse of one of the three body guards, fleeting and always making John do a double take. They were being watched, that much was a certainty. So it wasn't as though John had put Savine completely at the back of his mind. She still ruled the forefront, along with the wild things that partied in the deep of night, ripping out noise to wake the dead.

Both were what made him edgy about these afternoon walks, even with daylight overhead – daylight minimized by thick, scattered clouds.

Krissa looked up at John uncertainly. " Bart said the grounds are safest during the day. And being in that lab was making me sleepy."

John couldn't argue with that. The lab had a way of turning into a sweat box minus the heat throughout the day – stuffy and dull. John had caught Krissa's head bobbing once or twice, all between his own bouts of nodding off all together.

Bren typed on his pad. _Krissa's mother was insistent she spend small moments in fresh air, and exercising._

John could definitely not argue against motherly advice.

The path turned, hugging along the wall. John scuffed more pebbles to send them scattering on ahead.

Two more days. Krissa had promised two more days, and the sil would be ready for testing. But the contest did not really begin until all entries were complete, so the completion of the sil was no guarantee that John would be getting out of this place any time soon, and it was starting to settle on him like a rock in his stomach. He had ignored the passage of time as best he could, and stifled his thoughts from drifting to Atlantis, and what might be going on there. He couldn't think about it for the sake of sanity. Even giving in to a fond memory or two started the invisible bugs to go haywire beneath his skin.

But even brains had brains of their own, and thought what they wanted. He could no more put Atlantis out of mind than he could force Diavante to lift that stupid shield. So he did think, and squirm, and increase in agitation until some occurrence in the present pulled him from it – which was pretty much often.

And pretty much now.

" This will be a short walk, though," Krissa said as her gaze shifted around nervously. " Very short."

 _Go back now, maybe?_ Bren typed.

" I won't argue with tha..." John's words ended in a choked squeak when he was yanked back by the collar of his vest, jacket, and shirt to go slamming into an ivy-thinned area of the wall. No sooner had he impacted when a thick hand with sausages for fingers wrapped around John's neck and pinned him to the spot.

" Careful Glot. That is a rather fragile looking neck you are holding. Appears as though it wouldn't take much to _break_ it."

If Glot's hold was lose, then John didn't know how to pilot a jumper. The mere presence of the hand on his throat was enough to decrease the circumference of his trachea. John's breath rasped, and his vision was starting to spark. He tried to pull the hand from him but it was solid as a statue.

" Let him go!" Krissa screamed. John focused through the sparks to see Krissa standing with arms rigid at her side and fists shaking. Her eyes shimmered with tears. " Leave him alone! You're hurting him!"

Bren had his weapon raised, and the need to say something was a torment manifested in the increasing red spreading through his face. The man was pissed.

" Glot will release him when we have talked," Sareeka snapped. The woman was standing on the other side of the ogre, dressed in brown leather pants, a cream-colored smock, and brown leather vest. Her stance was that of an impatient woman with hand on hip and heeled boot tapping. But John caught – even in his hazed state of mind – the flicker of fear that went whizzing through her features like Roadrunner with Coyote on his tail.

" You will release him now!" Krissa shriek. She advanced – actually advanced – on the mountain of muscle that was Glot and began beating the thick man on the small of the back with her tiny fists. " Let him go!"

Bren made to pull her back, but not before Glot shoved her back to send her sprawling on the ground.

 _Oh hell no!_ Using Glot's unwavering hold, John pushed his back against the wall and brought up both feet to ram into Glot's groin.

Glot grunted, doubled up, but only pressed John harder into the wall. John gritted his teeth against his own pain spiraling up both ankles.

 _What's he got in there, metal?_

Grot's lip curled. He pulled John from the wall, then slammed him harder against it. The pain in his ankles became a trifle compared to the pain ripping through his shoulder-blades. His only verbal response was another pathetic squeak as he tried to suck in air that wasn't coming.

" Enough!" Sareeka snarled. " Glot! Stow your pried. I wanted him subdued, not dead." Sareeka turned her red-hot gaze on Krissa. The girl was back on her feet, looking from John to Sareeka, altering between fury and fear.

" What do you want?" Krissa asked, her head ping-ponging back and forth.

" An ultimatum, nothing more. You leave me be, I leave you be. Reasonable enough."

Krissa squinted uncertainly. " Huh?"

" Oh don't play ignorant, girl! I know you're the ones who made the Genii vanish. You can deny it, plead innocent, but I was there when that Genii and this one," She pointed a stiff finger at John, " came at odds. I've heard of the confrontation you had with Avril. I have yet to figure your means, but I will not become your next victim. You dare to cross paths with me in any way, and you will die, all of you. Let me be, and I will pretend that you are not here. You may stay in the contest, continue to exist, and I will not get in your way. All as long as you do not get in mine. Do we have an understanding?"

Krissa opened her mouth, then clamped it shut. She looked from Bren, to John, to Sareeka, then back to John. Confusion was present, coupled with dread and the struggle to maintain calm. But she was at a loss, a total loss, and John knew it was because she wanted to refuse having had anything to do with the disappearances. The girl was honest to a fault, and it was getting harder for John to breathe. He looked at Krissa pleadingly, sorrowfully because he understood. It was what he liked about Krissa, her honesty and her abhorrence toward harm.

Her kindness, which Sareeka knew nothing about.

" O-okay," Krissa said in a small, defeated voice.

A mile curved Sareeka's lips. " Good. Glot?"

Glot released John. John's legs gave way, and he fell to his knees, rubbing his throat. Krissa hurried to his side, checking his neck. Sareeka and Glot sauntered past without a second look.

" John?" Krissa's voice faltered. John looked over at her, at the tears still pooling at the edges of her eyelids.

John coughed, then rasped. " You all right?"

Gradually, a smile was allowed to come out on Krissa's face, tentative at best but genuine all the same. " Yes. Are you?"

John began rising to his feet, and Krissa helped by keeping a firm hold on his arm.

" I will be," he rasped.

Bren gave him an okay nod, and clasped him on the shoulder.

" Time to go in, then," Krissa said hurridly. They walked more quickly down the garden path until they came to the north-end gate.

" I hope this contest ends soon," Krissa said. She was between Bren and John. But as they neared the gate, all three slowed. It was blatantly apparent something was wrong.

The black iron gate was clinging to the wall by a single hinge, and leaning drunkenly to the side.

" Well," John mused, " guess this place isn't as well kept as I thought."

The gate whined at the slightest movement. Krissa was the first to move close, and leaned in while at the same time keeping distance as though not wanting to touch it – or more logically allow it to fall on her.

" I see no rust," she said. Then shook her head. " No, the metal is twisted. This gate was torn off. Maybe in a storm? I've heard storms that have shown such power..."

John took up the scrutiny when he was near enough, along with Bren. Bren nodded in agreement. The hinge was twisted, and the metal scarred. Krissa touched the gate lightly. It moved with a whine. She looked it up and down, then looked up. The color vanished from her face as though all the blood had drained from her. John noticed.

" Krissa?" He moved to stand by her. There was a red spot in the middle of her forehead. Then another landed with a _plat_ next to the first. John looked up.

" Son of a...! Crap!"

He grabbed Krissa, covering her eyes while twisting her away to shield all view using his own body. But he couldn't tear his own sights away from the mangled and near fleshless face staring down at him with mouth gaping and single eye bulging in perpetual terror. Everything was pretty much gone – flesh, muscles, an arm, a few fingers. The corpse from trunk to head was hanging from the tangle of ivy at the top of the wall. Blood dripped from it, fresh. Insects swarmed droning around it, drinking it up. John could see into its mouth where the tongue was supposed to be.

" Krissa," John said, shuddering. " Don't look. Just... keep looking away."

Krissa became heavier in his arms. He looked down at her to see her head hanging limply from her neck, and arms dangling.

She'd passed out.

TBC...


	18. Midnight Menagerie

John gathered Krissa up and deposited her into Bren's arms.

" Get her out of here." It came out almost like a plea more than instruction. John kept looking back to the meatless skull hanging like Hannibal the Cannibal's Pinata from the wall. It was still dripping.

Bren didn't hesitate and walked fast back up the path. John took up the rear and kept an eye open for the genetic servants that were supposed to be everywhere. Lack of other presences, even lack of sound say for the drunken warbling of some lunatic bird that didn't know when it was time to shut up, was making his heart speed up. It had never really hit John before how empty this place was. He had always assumed, since the first day they arrived to a stable yard crawling with hybrid creations, that servants were out there somewhere, felt more than seen. He'd never taken the time to actually look and prove himself right or wrong.

Not to say that they weren't out there, just wickedly good at keeping out of sight.

" Damnit! Where the hell is everyone!" John snarled. He leaned to the side to peer around shrubs, then craned his neck to peer over them. He negotiated his way through the plant life to the massive green house, but skidded to a stop when he saw Vice gimping his way out the door. The man had buckled down and adopted the use of a cane. He turned, heading John's way, only to halt abruptly on finally noticing John.

John had his mouth open in ready to report the body hanging from the wall, but was struck by sudden terror. If Vice was here, Savine couldn't be that far behind. Besides, John had a feeling Vice couldn't care less concerning corpses dangling upside down – unless it was John's corpse. The man's eyes narrowed with a feral hatred that had John gulping.

" Screw that." He spun on his heels and charged from the greenhouse and back up the path. He was through the gate, only to do another skidding halt on seeing a face-off ensuing between Bren and the smirking Savine.

" That slimey old bat," John seethed, then stalked up to stand beside Bren. Savine's two other cronies had her flanked, their hands hanging at their sides within inches of their weapons. John brought his P-90 to the forefront.

Savine's eyes were only for the unconcsious Krissa.

" What has happened to my granddaughter?"

" None of your business," John caustically replied. " So move. She needs to get inside."

Savine pulled her unfathomable gaze from Krissa to place it on John. " What happened to my granddaughter?"

Bren's own gaze narrowed into a glower, and his need for an audible retort was turning his face red. There was such a thing as smiling too much, and Savine was doing just that. John's own frustration coupled with Bren's could have fueled a good sized bomb. Oh, if only, if only...

" Why do you want to know?" John spat. " Because beneath that wrinkled ice burg you call a body your only pathetic spark of grandmotherly affection finally clawed through? Or are you just pissed because you think someone else got to your granddaughter first? Really think I'll give you the satisfaction of telling you?"

Savine clasped her hands together. " If you wish to pass, then yes."

John rolled his eyes and cursed. " You freakin'...! She passed out, you happy? She had the bad luck to look up at the wrong time and see a human chew toy staring down at her. There's a dead body at the north end of the garden, which I'm pretty sure isn't doing wonders for the reputation of your boss' place. So we can either stand around here all day and have a staring contest, or you could make your boss a happy man and tell someone about the body before it starts stinking up the place!"

It was a harsh way to put the matter, but John wasn't going to waste time trying to get Savine's sympathy's up for a face-less dead person. The woman didn't even twitch a facial muscle at the mention of corpse, and the way the competition was playing out, she was probably used to stumbling on bodies herself (maybe even planting a few).

The stance of Savine's goons eased out of their tense posture, and the twitching fingers stilled. John took that as the cue to go, and placed a hand on Bren's shoulder to urge him on. They swept around Savine and her men with only a ripple of air brushing between them. John chanced a quick peek over his shoulder. Savine and company had turned, and that smile was still plastered as though carved forever into her face.

John's spine pricked with cold irritation. He wanted to turn, storm back, and wipe that smile clean out of existence with a quick right hook across the jaw. As Carson might say, that woman is too bloody happy. The smile was almost – triumphant – it seemed, as though the old hag knew something, had done something, or was about to do something that would make all the world right for her and her alone.

Anger switched with shattering nerves. The woman was a nut job, and it was freaking John out. He looked away, but kept his head turned enough for Savine to remain in his peripheral vision.

Savine kept on smiling.

" Bart!" John called the moment he and Bren entered the parlor. Bren set Krissa down on the couch by the door, and John headed into the bed chamber to find Bart and a black, feline-faced genetic with a long, prehensile tail and huge bat-ears changing the sheets on the bed. After tucking the last corner, Bart turned to John.

" Yes, Mr. Sheppard?"

John jerked his thumb over his shoulder. " Problem. Dead body at the north end of the garden hanging from the wall. Should I be worried or do these things 'just happen'?"

Bart sniffed. " I fear, Mr. Sheppard, these things just happen. Chances were, the dead individual in question took a walk in the late evening and was caught by one of the woodland creatures."

The cat-bat twitched its over-sized ears. " Would not be the first time," it both rasped and purred.

Bart turned to the cat-bat and jerked its head in a nod. The cat-bat nodded back and scurried from the room, John stepping to the side to let it pass. He looked back at Bart, the creature pulling the blue quilt back over the layers of sheets.

All this impassivity, this cold dismissal for what on any other world would have had people up in arms and reacting, was chipping away at John one nerve ending at a time. People vanishing he could put up with, because it didn't mean they were dead.

Mutilated bodies were the final step crossing the line into full-fledged horror movie, and John didn't want to be around when the ax murderer finally shouted his 'Here's Johnny' through a butchered door. John stepped into the room. Bart was leaning forward, smoothing out the wrinkles in the blanket.

" What does it usually take for people to start getting worried?"

Bart moved to the pillows and fluffed them. " People already are worried." He swiveled his head ninety degrees to look at John. " About themselves. You, Miss Krissa, and Mr. Bren are the only ones who have extended their concern. That is not wise, Mr. Sheppard."

John leaned against the post of the bed and crossed his arms in front of his chest. " I just have a problem with people dying over a stupid contest. It's never attracted attention, from anyone? Family of the victims, Sriotian authorities?"

Bart turned from the bed to gather the discarded sheets piled on the floor into a large basket. " It has... in the past. But all know the dangers of the woods. And Master Diavante's is a difficult place to find."

Or was it more that Diavante had everyone under his thumb. The image of nervous children gathered off the path leading into an ink black forest, talking urban legend gibberish about a creature called Diavante, crawled back into John's recollection.

Who is this Diavante?

" Is there a way for me to meet your boss?" John asked.

" Why would you want to?"

John spread the fingers of one hand over his bicep. " To talk. To say hi. To see what he looks like. He can't be that bad a recluse. Doesn't anyone get to see him?"

Bart stuffed the sheets into the basket, shifting the folds until no inch of the coverings trailed out. " Diavante must come to you, there is no going to him."

Bart kept stuffing, an act of fidgeting hesitation. Facial expressions could be mastered, but it took more to keep minor actions in check. Bart shoved the sheets deeper and tighter until he had no more room for more shoving. Finally, the genetic little hob-goblin lifted the basket and ambled to the door. " Master Diavante does not wish to be seen."

John turned his head enough to watch Bart go. It was redundant to say that the creature was holding back on something, but John said it to himself all the same. The question was – how to get that something out of a being that expressed the same regard it held for a mote of dust over a dead, mutilated body? John knew he wasn't the first with deep suspicions concerning Diavante, or the first wanting information. Bart had that information, and probably the skills to hold it no matter how interrogated or threatened to give it up.

Besides, in the end, it probably wouldn't matter. With another scientist gone, this contest was drawing to its close. It would be over, the shield would be open, John could go home, and Krissa would be safe under Diavante's employment.

Except life was never so easy.

SGA

Krissa had become an automaton. On waking pale faced and stoic, she insisted on returning to the lab to work on the sil. There was no talking her out of it. She declared her desire, then made for the door, leaving the decision to follow up to Bren and John. Once in the lab the girl fell into the rhythm of construction – welding, sparking, cutting, and programming. She worked into the evening meal which Bart had brought since no one was in the mood for company, and didn't touch a single piece of food.

Bren was concerned, but John – even harboring his own concern – was understanding. Food would not be a pretty prospect for some time, and only Bren cleaned his own plate. John managed a roll, and a few scraps of meat. The red mashed whats-it was just too _red_ to even look at.

On bringing the meal, Bart had also brought the news that the body had belonged the the short, pudgy scientist that could have won the contest for having the most protectors, had there been such a contest. He had been identified by his key card. The protectors were no where to be found.

Bart began gathering up the cold plates to set them on the silver tray.

John, sitting at a clutter-free lab table, ran his hand over his face, then rubbed his eye. His mind was floating in mist, a light insubstantial mist he was actually starting to enjoy as it leaked numbingly through the rest of his rebelling body.

Give him something corporeal to shoot. He was longing for a physical target. Something – someone – coming at him from the front. One shot, one fall, one down and the threat would finally have a face. Then, were there more than one, they could suffer the same fate.

The unknown had a kinship with heat-of-the-moment danger – both sparked the necessary evil of violent reaction. The difference was, heat of the moment was always here and now, with the mind working on automatic, and all thought process say for survival put on hiatus. For the unknown, there was no action until the moment for it came. Until then, there was only desire – the need to do something, find something, react to something. It was a kind of madness, really, one that accumulated like pressure building beneath a geyser, gathering toward combustion until one was shooting at the walls because shadows wouldn't stop flickering.

Mind games. Torture tactic finale, right before the fall.

John closed his eyes. Warnings whispered like timid, frightened children in his head. He would listen to them this time around. Even if they had him jumping off the roof, he would listen and do it.

John heard sniffling and opened his eyes to look at Krissa. Her shoulders were jerking, but her arms were still. Bren had the sil in his hands and was gently placing it back in the lock box. The old man looked at John, then at Krissa, both with a pitying expression.

John forced his stiff-limbed body to move from its numbed existence on the chair over to where Krissa sniffed and shuddered. He eased himself onto the stool next to her and leaned with both his arms on the table, hands clasped.

Tears traced glittering paths down Krissa's cheeks. When she spoke, it was in a small, altered voice.

" I wish I never came here."

" I thought you didn't have a choice?" John said.

Krissa wiped her nose with the back of her hand, then shrugged. " There's always a choice."

" Living on the run doesn't sound like much of a choice to me."

Krissa lowered her head to stare at her hands toying with a tiny bolt in her fingers. " I – I knew... I _thought_ I knew... just how terrible things became during the competition. But... I don't think... I did." She did another wipe with her hand. Bren came up beside her and handed her a white handkerchief. She took it, wiped her cheeks, then crumpled it in her hands still holding the bolt.

" I don't want to live in a place that doesn't care what happens to people. I don't want to spend the rest of my life here." She took a deep breath, and sighed, shoulders sagging. " How can anyone be safe in a place like this? Or remain safe? If I win the contest, how do I know it's all over for good? It may just keep going – all these disappearances... and deaths. How does Diavante keep anyone safe? We don't even see him. This was stupid. Coming here was stupid."

John, at a loss, looked up at Bren. The older man looked just as lost as to what to do or say. John shifted his sights back to Krissa, and took the bolt from her hand. " You did what you felt needed to be done. If you ask me, it honestly sounded as though you didn't have a choice. Be a fugitive or die because you're grandmother's heart is a useless lump of coal."

Krissa did another hiccuping inhale with more tears racing eachother down her face. Her eyes, however, focused inward to distant thoughts that made her oblivious to her surroundings.

" I shouldn't have come. It was stupid. I should have known better."

John actually chuckled derisively at this, which brought Krissa out of her inward musings to look at him oddly.

" Known better," John repeated. " Ah, crap, where have I heard that before? You know what's funny about decisions? Sometimes, all you have to decide between is one evil versus another evil. Where I come from, we call it choosing between the lesser of two evils. Then – sometimes – you find out that there's no such thing as the lesser of two evils. They're _both_ just as irritatingly wicked, and it doesn't matter which one you choose, you're still screwed. It's like this story – from where I come from. It's about a guy who's psychotically in love with this princess, but the king isn't too happy about it. So he puts the guy in an arena where he's faced with two choices. He can either choose the princess and get eaten by these giant, man-eating animals, or go for door number two and a forced marriage with another woman he doesn't love. You know which one he chooses?"

Krissa shook her head.

John grinned. " Yeah, neither do I, that's how the story ends."

Krissa wiped her nose with the cloth and furrowed her brow. " Sounds like a rather dumb story."

" Maybe. But, hey, it's also life. Some choices just suck either way you choose. I know. I've faced it enough, been forced to decide between the bad and the bad, swallowed my poison and had to live with it ever since. And each time, I didn't know better. You don't let yourself know better. You just go by hope, by faith, by necessity. You go by what you can. In the end, yeah you hate yourself, but..."

John looked down at the table and his warped reflection in the smooth metallic surface.

' _If you'd stayed, you would have both died.'_ Kate's words. So poignantly true they stabbed into John's brain. Both die or one die, John's sucky choice. Such truths he tended to stubbornly refuse to except for the harshness of them. It was like with Sumner – he said the word 'necessity' in his head and out loud, but inside still loathed himself for doing it, because it had been a necessary evil.

" But you go with it," he blurted, his throat thick and his voice heavy. " You do it, because... as it turns out... it really was the lesser of two evils."

Still didn't mean he had to like it.

He felt the light weight of Krissa's hand on his arm, so he looked at her.

Such grown-up eyes in such a little girl. It wasn't right.

Then Krissa pursed her lips. " It's still a dumb story."

John burst out a breathy laugh. " Yeah, kind of irritated me too." He then looked at his watch. " Man, it's getting kind of late. Maybe we should head up to the room."

Krissa, doing one final wipe before stuffing the cloth into the pocket of her dress, nodded and stood. " Tomorrow, the sil should be ready. After that, we only need to wait for the others to finish."

They left the lab with Bart locking up behind them, then the dungeon to enter the darkened halls that required Bart to lead the way using a flashlight. Once it was lights out, it was lights out, and stragglers had to put up with it.

Everything was a black and white Picasso piece, warped by darkness and moonlight until nothing was familiar. The little' party's shadow doppelgangers glided within the mirrors like separate beings living on their own concordance. The group was silent, and the need to get out of the darkness was mutual enough not to be spoken. Upstairs, the darkness was worse, surrounding and stretching like a maw and its connecting throat. Bart's light danced off the ceiling, floors and walls, slicing the darkness without leaving a mark.

The light flitted off something that wasn't in keeping with the rest of the décor, and John caught it within the brief second he had to see.

" Whoa, wait! Pull the light back, on the floor. I though I saw something."

Bart swept the light over the carpet. It glanced off of a small lump that was immediately swallowed back into obscurity when the light passed. Bart quickly snapped the light to where the lump had been, then moved it up to show the lump connected to a bigger lump.

John brought up his P-90 and clicked on its light. Together, the two beams allowed them to piece the single massive form together as belonging to Grot. Krissa gasped. John moved closer.

Blood had soaked a misshapen circle in the rug beneath Grot, and blood continued to ooze from gashes and tears in the meaty body. Half of Grot's face was torn away, a shredded half-mask of meat and bone. Grot's back was shredded, his legs, his arm bent wrong at the elbow. It was the gaping tear in the chest that made John gag on rising vomit.

Then came the scream. A human scream. A female scream.

John's heart took off at a run. He whirled around, slicing the darkness with his light. " Get Krissa inside," he said barely above a whisper. " Lock the door."

Bren began hustling Krissa toward the room.

" B-but John," Krissa stammered. " What – what about you? Aren't you coming?"

" No. I'm going after Sareeka."

Krissa grabbed the door frame before Bren could haul her the rest of the way in. " John, no, you can't! You'll be killed!"

John pulled his nine mil and made sure it still had a clip. " I can't just let whatever happened to Grot happen to Sareeka. Nobody else around here may give a damn, but I do. If I can keep this from happening, I will. Now get inside!"

" John!" Krissa yelled, but her grip on the frame slid free and Bart closed the door before Krissa managed to wriggle from Bren's grasp.

Not even any time for a good luck, not that any of the three would know to say the words. John's heart beat like a cornered animal trying to break free of its bony confinement. This was stupid, foolish, dangerous – and pretty much the story of John's life. Had McKay been present, there would have been snide remarks concerning Kirk and saving damsels in distress.

Except John wasn't all that fond of Sareeka. He was doing this out of charity, not attraction, so his resolve wasn't quite so fixed. He was also doing this to spite the cold indifference that seemed to be the norm of Diavante's residents. To hell with the competition. It wasn't in John's nature to let death traipse where it would.

John shoved his nine mil back into the thigh holster. He moved to the wall, keeping to it as he crept toward the stairs. Good old silence, he could actually forgive its persistent presence this time around, because he was going to need it. At the moment, it had nothing to reveal. Not that John expected to hear any frantic whimpers or frenetic breathing within the next five seconds. The scream had had some distance to it.

John cursed the darkness. The light of the P-90 was a thin thread that didn't even put a dent in the shadows. This was yet another reason for his distaste toward opulence. The bigger the place, the better the hiding, and the more phantom flick of shadows that made John's nerves send out sudden bursts of electric pin-pricks.

He moved quick taking the stairs with a conditioned control that kept the silence in place. Not one step creaked or any of his footfalls thump – he knew how to play at being a ghost. Once at the bottom he crouched against the wall and swept his light through the hall. Light flashed off of mirrors and window pains, but no moving forms. The way cleared, John unfolded from his position and moved on, mourning his lack of a life-signs detector.

 _Note to self – Never stop carrying one!_

A scream, farther away this time around. John paused to listen, then increased his pace. There followed a whining creak that made John halt and crouch at the ready. He stayed crouched as he moved toward the sound each time it came, only to straighten when he arrived at the front entrance. The door was ajar, and moving with each puffing gust of wind. John heard the scream again, garbled by greater distance. He was wasting time creeping about like a cockroach.

John slipped through the door out into the moist midnight so dark it actually hurt John's eyes. He kept to the wall of the mansion as a reference point, and went at a half-run toward the stables. He could hear, still with too much distance for comfort, the shouts, screams, and entreaties of Sareeka. As stuck up and cold as that woman was, it didn't deter John's sympathies for her.

He reached the stable gate – closed and locked tight when he tried to tug on the bars. Sareeka had most definitely not gone through there. John moved on, skirting around the corner to the other side of the wall where the forest was too close for comfort. John was running now, pumping his legs as fast as he could manage while still keeping the P-90 up. He rounded the next corner, and his light landed on a door swaying precariously from a single hinge. It was the way to the inner court of the place, where the storage sheds, never-used smithee, and wash room were.

The screams were closer, reverberating sharply to make John cringe. He slowed on approach to the door, and moved with a methodically light tread on entering the inner court.

A howl, like a trumpet and a roar, had John diving behind the nearest shed, pressing his back up against it. Within the howl was a shriek of terror-induced insanity that bubbled down into a broken, wailing sob.

Sareeka didn't have that much longer to live. John shoved back with infuriated force his own rising terror. With a deep breath, he bolted from around the building, and darted to the larger stone structure that was the old smithee.

Another howl shattered the air, vibrating John's bones. It banged like a jackhammer against his eardrums, forcing him to release his weapon to cover his ears before the fragile membrane was punctured. But he could still feel the sound beating against him like pressure building up around his body. When it died down, John released his ears to grab up his P-90 and do another bolt around the structure.

He slowed when the light fell on the prone body dressed in a red nightgown and robe. Sareeka was ten feet away before another of the dead fountains. She was also alone.

John passed his light around in a 360 circle, then brought it back to Sareeka.

" Sareeka?" His voice came out cracked and harsh. He moved to the form that had yet to move. Something was spreading beneath it, growing and growing. His light exposed the heavy crimson of a bloody pool, and with a sickening jolt as though the world had dropped out from beneath John, he realized that the gown wasn't supposed to be red. His light flashed off the remaining hint of sky blue at the hem of the robe.

John jerked to a halt as both stomach and heart attempted to cram themselves into his throat.

" Son of a...!"

His attention was so focused on Sareeka that the movement beyond the body didn't reach his attention until the gutteral purr sounded. John's light jerked up to the hulking mass of darkness hovering over the body.

John's terror was delayed by numbing confusion. John wasn't a stranger to beasts, but he sure as hell wasn't desensitized to them. This one – pale, scaled skin, blunt snout with an outward jutting and bloodstained jaw, arched spine ridged in spikes the length of a forearm, arms like an ape with knuckles that dragged on the ground, and claws scythe-curved and blood-painted. The thing drooled blood, licked blood from its lipless, serrated fang-filled maw with a worm-like tongue. It even had blood-red eyes.

But above all that, the one feature that struck John the hardest was that this _thing_ was wearing clothes. Tattered, frayed, barely hanging on to the muscle thick body, but horribly familiar by its silver color.

The thing stared at John with a look of annoyance remarkably human in such ugly red eyes. The creature lifted an arm knotted with ropey veins, wiped its jaws, then pointed at John. The thing grunted. The next thing John knew, something heavy and foul smelling crashed into his body, bringing him down hard and painful to the ground. He barely cried out from the first pain when a second pain joined it in his arm brought on by claws splitting the flesh of his bicep.

John reacted on instinct. He swung his P-90 up, bashing whatever it was in its thick skull. The thing tilted to the side, so John rammed the business end into what he thought was the gut and fired. There was a shriek like metal being rended. The thing reared back, and John got his first good look.

The creature clawing at its bleeding belly was slender, copper furred, with a long, narrow, and toothy snout that curved into a sharp beak. It shredded the remainder of the shirt and leather jackets in its attempt at getting to the holes in its gut. But that was all John saw when he was grabbed by the collar of his vest and thrown back into the wall of the mansion with a crack.

The threatening fog of unconsciousness pulsated in his vision. He shook his head trying to clear it, then attempted to rise. He was brought back to the ground with a hiss of pain flaring through both his sides.

 _And there goes another rib._ He tried climbing to his feet again, and slipped back down the wall, hugging his sides. Hisses, purrs, and growls were all around him. Panic kicked back the pain. He lifted his gun to sweep the light around. The beasts were gathered about the bleeder thrashing on the ground. The white lizard gorilla held it down. A brown, leather skinned anthropomorphic T-rex that walked with a gimp sliced the belly open and proceeded to pick out the bullets with its claws. The third, a black creature covered in small but jagged scales and with a beaked snout, held the bleeder's own snout shut. And they all wore clothes – what was left of clothes.

" What the hell?" John murmured. He braced his back to the wall, and pushed with his feet, inching up until he was returned to standing. But he was stuck using the wall as support. His legs shook. One step, and he'd go down like a chopped tree. He had until the creatures finally remembered that he was around to recover his strength.

John's heart dropped. _I'm dead_.

" Mr. Sheppard..."

John jolted and whipped his head around and down to see Bart standing like the ever patient butler with clawed hands clasped behind the back. Now John had to wonder if he was dreaming. He felt himself start sliding back down the wall.

" Wh-what...?"

Bart took John's hand and began tugging him along. " This way, Mr. Sheppard. Time is not on our side."

John shot one more bewildered look to the beasts playing back-woods surgeon with their buddy. Even under restraint by the hulking mutant gorilla, it still lashed and writhed.

" In here, Mr. Sheppard."

John looked back. Bart was guiding him through a hole in the wall, a door shaped hole big enough for Bart but forcing John to bend his back to get through. Once on the other side he was able to straighten, and fell against the moist stone walls.

They were in a narrow corridor dimly lit by small lamps evenly spaced. They hummed with that annoying low pitched sound normally associated with fluorescent bulbs, and a few flickered and strobed.

Bart pressed a small hand panel and a stone door slid into place, muffling the howls and shrieks of agony. With a wall of rock between him and the creatures, John let himself slide to the floor this time around, planting his elbow on his upturned knees, and his head in his hands.

He was trembling, and would eventually puke once the energy for it surfaced.

" Oh crap..." he moaned through his hands. " Oh gosh. What the hell... What the hell is going on?" He wanted to sob; honest to goodness break down in tears, curl up in a ball, and pass out. Wouldn't be the first time. He was conditioned enough through similar moments throughout his life to know how to shake it off, exhale it out, give himself a moment then get over it. At most, it lasted a minute.

After a minute, he lifted his head to stare at Bart in a penetrating way. John was still trembling. He sucked in a sharp lungful of air, and coughed when his ribs stabbed.

" What – the hell – was that?" he said between gritted teeth, flecks of saliva flying from his lips. Insane, irrational terror was trying to pound its way through his skull, creating a throb, making his blood pulse as though too much for his veins to contain. More than wanting to go home, he just wanted to _wake up_.

Bart didn't seem to hear. He was looking to the sealed door with large ears pricked forward. He sniffed.

" Hm. Seems they couldn't save him."

" What?"

" Listen."

John strained his hearing beyond the wall. The shrieks and howls had stopped.

" Sounds as though your aim had been true, Mr. Sheppard. Normally the thick or armored hides protect them. Most of the projectiles Mr. Vice suffered through were lodged in the skin. Little trouble digging them out. Not this time, it seems. Madame Savine is going to be very angry with you."

John raised an eyebrow at Bart. " What? What the hell are you talking about? What are those things? Savine's little pets?"

Bart turned to John and mimicked the brow movement. " Pets? Well, perhaps the other three... two now, it sounds like. Not really her pets, just under her employ. No, not pets. That had been Savine and her men."

John stared. " S-Savine? That thing – that thing that... um... mutilated Sareeka... That was Savine?"

" Yes. Mr. Sheppard."

John shrank against the wall, wishing he could shrink into it all together and out of existence. " Ah hell you've gotta be kidding me." The words came out almost as a whimper. " No freakin way. American Werewolf on another planet, what the hell!"

Bart sighed. " I do not know of this American Werewolf thing you speak of. Savine's altercation serum is one of her most prized creations. An accident, really, since it was not her objective to create a means to alter one's form. But so goes the ways of science. Took her many years to perfect - many tests."

Bart took John's arm and began tugging. " Come with me. There is something I must show you. Perhaps it will shed much light on the situation."

With Bart's help, John inched and struggled his way to his feet with one shoulder glued to the wall for support. His legs were rediscovering their strength, but he still didn't trust them. Bart led the way down the narrow corridor.

" Where are we, anyway?" John asked.

" Servants' passage. It's why you see so few of my kind. They are all asleep right now. Mr. Sheppard, I must warn you, the death of Mr. Rint has put you in dangerous standing with Madame Savine."

John snorted. " Like I wasn't already."

Bart, still moving, swiveled his head around. John hated that.

" Oh no, Mr. Sheppard. Whatever her ill will, Savine would never have harmed you as long as you remained on Master Diavante's property. Master Diavante will not allow it. Had Savine been able to kill you, you would have been dead days ago." Bart swiveled his head back. " But with Mr. Rint dead by your weapon, she may become angered enough to try anything to seek revenge. Madame Savine – she's not as she used to be in the head. I believe it is the serum. Prolonged use over the years has altered her and her men. Her men tend to give way to animal tendencies, which is why they are so messy with their kills. Tricky to control in their normal state, impossible to control in their animal state. Their own fault, really. They gave into the instincts. Madame Savine has not, but the power given to her by the form has made her..."

" Power hungry? Or a control freak?" John finished.

" Both, really. A most unhappy woman, Madame Savine. Use of the Serum has made her tendencies toward anger most volatile. You see, the serum wears off after a few weeks, sometimes three at the least, sometimes a month. It is prolonged the more one takes the form. First use is quite harmless, does little to the mentality. It is why Savine deemed it safe. But it has become her drug of choice. It is difficult to manufacture, and she spends much time doing so that she may not run out. It is a three part serum: The first being an inhibitor to keep the body from going into shock. The second the catalyst that forces the body to accept the animal biometrics. The final, the biometrics themselves. Initially, the serum was that whoever was injected became a creature and stayed that creature. She was missing a single component."

John rubbed his arm, wincing at the sting, and recalling the gashes Rint had so kindly bestowed upon him. He drew his hand away smeared with blood. He was really getting sick of that color. " Uh-huh. And you're telling me all this now because...?

Bart stopped and swiveled its head. " I like you Mr. Sheppard." The rest of his body followed the head, and Bart stepped up to John. " Have you a cloth?"

John pulled the emergency bandage from his ripped vest and handed it over. Bart unbound the cloth and stood tip-toe to wrap it around John's arm.

" _Like me_?" John said, laying the incredulity on thick. Last time someone had said similar words, a young soldier got his chest split open.

" Quite. You treated me as nothing more than an equal rather than a creature. You gave me a name. You did not exclude me. Rather disconcerting at first, but I found I rather enjoyed it. I feel a repayment is in order. I do not wish to see anything unfortold befalling you, Miss Krissa and Mr. Bren. Very unpleasant prospect."

When Bart had finished tying off the bandage, he resumed the trek down the corridor. John followed.

" So," John said. " This missing component?"

" Madame Savine creates the forms using the structural components of other creatures. Many creatures. The serums ingenuity is the control one has over it. I know since I was one of those who assisted in its creation. The structural components are many but the mind of the one taking the serum is actually able to _choose_ which attributes of which creature it wants, and discards those attributes it does not want. You create your own form according to necessity, subconscious desire, and personality. Or, at least, that is what seems to be the case. Madame Savine's form has grown over the years, taking better attributes and discarding lesser. Changing into and back out of the form is also by choice, though extreme duress can trigger it without knowledge."

John shook his head and chuckled tiredly. " Man, if only Beckett could hear this. His jaw would never leave the floor."

" Beckett?"

" A doctor. Has a little thing for genetics himself. No where even close to this level though. Crap, he'd flip out if he heard about it."

They turned a corner, went twenty more feet, then Bart stopped to press another hand panel. A door slid away revealing a spiral staircase in a narrow stairwell. The metal case rang with each of their footsteps and shuddered. John gripped the rail until his knuckles were white.

" Sure this thing is safe?"

" Quite. We are almost there."

On reaching the bottom, another panel was pressed, another door slid away, and John found himself in the lab dungeon. They continued on past the lab doors with their darkened windows. One, however, was lit, and John peeked in to see that Genii scientist hunched over the table, welding something.

" So why was Sareeka killed, and that other guy?"

" Caught trying to break into Savine's lab, no doubt. Trying to steal her creations. Such actions are not allowed, and those who do such actions are no longer under Diavante's protection."

John curled his lip in disgust. " Diavante really has a talent for looking the other way, doesn't he?"

Bart sniffed. " More than you know. Here we are."

They had come to what had to have been the final chamber of the dungeon, and a large metal door with a small, square window. Bart pulled a key card from its pocket, slipped it through the slot, and waited until the tiny light changed color.

The door opened on its own accord, and lights flicked on.

Stepping inside was like stepping into the worlds coolest freak show, or the chamber where Ripley kept all the Believe it or Nots. All along the wall were small rooms sealed by unbreakable glass where mis-matched genetic creatures prowled, paced or slept. Between those were metal shelves of hightech 'specimen jars' where grotesque forms floated in yellow-tinted fluids. Some were small, some so large they couldn't be put on shelves but beside shelves. The center of the room was dominated by tables of equipment that made McKay's lab look like a day-care center full of cute, expensive toys. For John to just be looking at the stuff made him nervous concerning damage and the amount needed to be paid for that damage.

John and Bart moved along the walls of the freak show. Creatures hissed, snarled, even jumped against the glass with a boom and a thud, making John flinch. He was wired enough as it was to start at the drop of a pin. A few creatures regarded them indifferently, others with a penetrating sorrow. John swore the thing that looked like a furry Golum was pleading with him to let it out.

" One of the first to be tested with the serum," Bart explained. " Didn't quite go too well. The rest are merely sample creations." They walked by something resembling one of Bart's brethren, but doing nothing more than dribbling drool. " My kind were graced to have intelligence so that we might be useful rather than fill these cells."

A snake the size of a horse and a length John could not measure rose up, spreading two arms and clawed fingers. It began banging on the window, hissing and gaping its maw with fangs dripping poison.

" Another serum attempt. That one went quite feral."

They passed window after window, John's gut coiling tighter with each vicious and grotesque thing peering back at him. Then, at the next window, he halted so suddenly he stumbled. There, pacing behind the glass, thumping its tail, was a...

" Freakin' erak!"

Bart turned and regarded the mutant dog. " You are acquainted with this model?"

John's fingers twitched on the trigger of his P-90. " Oh yeah. _Very_ , acquainted. Is there a way to let it out? Because I'd really like to acquaint it with a bullet to the brain. Why do you have one? Savine plan on making it worse?"

" Making it worse? Mr. Sheppard, the beast is as altered as it can get. Originally it was quite a docile creature, but the inhabitants of that world wanted something more fierce. It's bio-makeup was altered to make it bigger, stronger, while at the same time capable of being controlled."

The erak threw itself against the glass, clawed it, head-butted it, and howled out its frustrated fury at the invisible barrier between it and its pray.

John turned to Bart. " The Mykotes – Cyladrans. Those guys?"

" Yes."

" You do business with the Cyladrans?"

" For a number of years. You see, their world has precious metals that Diavante most desires, so many of Master Diavante's inventions have gone to them."

Oh how John wanted to laugh, and shoot something, and cry. Maybe even rip his hair out. Instead, he dropped both his arms, letting the P-90 dangle heavy in his hand. " Bloody freakin' hell!" Carson probably couldn't have said it better. John would have beaten him to saying it anyways. " Yeah, I've landed in hell. Crap, those bastards had us believing they were freakin' advanced!" John winced when the muted throbbing in his head became a pounding. His hand shot straight to his skull, and he had to gulp back rising vomit.

Bart's forehead wrinkled. " Mr. Sheppard? Are you all right? You look pale."

John, still shivering, lurched toward the nearest stool and dropped himself into it. " Yeah – um... No, not really. But, hey, no surprise. I mean look at my day. Headache was inevitable."

" We will head back soon," Bart said. " I brought you here to see this, and you have seen it."

John, rubbing the back of his neck, narrowed his eyes suspiciously. " Why did you bring me here? I already knew Savine was into genetics?"

Bart clasped his claws back behind his back. " Oh, it is much more than that. Mr. Sheppard. I did not bring you here as an insight toward Madame Savine. You once asked me about Master Diavante; what he was like, who he was. Mr. Sheppard, what I am about to tell you is no secret. It is something that has simply... never been known. Diavante is quite good at keeping his secrets, but is neither here nor there should they be discovered. Sometimes, he can't afford to keep his secrets. Madame Savine knows, she has to. Her purpose for being here stems around his secrets. I told you there was a missing component to the serum."

John would have nodded, but his head would have protested loudly. " Yeah?"

" Diavante provided that component from his own bio-makeup." Bart then sniffed. " He is... an unusual being, Mr. Sheppard. You asked to meet him?"

John grimaced. " I'm having second thoughts."

" You've been having dreams?"

" Yeah."

" Unpleasant ones?"

" Yeah."

" Do they make you ill?"

" Very."

" Then it is safe to say you have already met him."

TBC...


	19. Not all Ancients were Friendly

Bart should have been a novelist – or wrote screenplays. He had a knack for leaving a subject hanging in the air, and driving the mind batty with suspense.

Until John was back in the parlor, getting properly treated for the cuts and breaks, Bart wasn't going to expound any further concerning Divante. The little genetic hob-goblin took John through the servants' passage, walking at a sideways angle to keep one arm wrapped around John's waist – which was as high as the creature could go. He took John's weight without effort or excess breathing, which would have been a trifle humiliating if John didn't suspect that besides brains, the genetic creatures had also been graced with a smidgen extra strength to make heavy lifting less of a hassle.

Entering the parlor, John was nearly knocked to the ground by Krissa bowling into him, throwing her arms his waist when Bart let go. Her aim was higher, and a cry gurgled from John's throat. He lurched back, prying the girl's arms from his abused floating ribs.

Looking at her face was a stab to the heart. Her cheeks were wet, and her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Krissa sniffed and wiped her nose with a handkerchief. " I heard the howls." Her voice was hoarse and thick. " I thought..."

John gave her a weak smile of reassurance. " Not today." He hobbled over to the couch and slowly lowered himself with a choked grunt. Krissa followed close on his heels. The moment he was sitting, she pulled the first aid kit from beneath the couch and began removing everything to set it on the floor in a perfect row. Bart went to the bathroom and returned with a bowl of water. After that, he moved to the fire and tossed on more wood.

Both Bren and Krissa aided John in peeling off the mutilated shirt. " What happened?" Krissa pressed, dropping the shirt to the floor and grabbing up a cloth and ointment bottle. Her shaking hands had the stuff splashing over everything except the cloth until Bren took it from her. " Did you save Sareeka?"

John shook his head heavily. " No." His voice had a scratchy quality to it, and he tried to recall when he had screamed. He then jerked his chin toward Bart. " Ask him. He seems to know what's going on. You still haven't told me about the dreams, Bart. You said something about Diavante talking through dreams."

Krissa began cleaning the gashes on John's arms. Bren unwound the bandages around John's chest. He looked at John quizzically, then shot the same look to Bart. Bart turned, standing butler-like with claws clasped behind the back. All that was missing was the prim black suit.

" Diavante finds dreams a more useful form of communication."

" What, he can't just talk face to face?"

" He prefers his method. More is revealed to him through the unconscious mind."

Krissa's attention ricocheted back and forth between Bart and John. Her hands were still unsteady, putting uncomfortable pressure on the wounds as she scrubbed them clean. John's mind, however, was honed, regarding the pain as little more than an annoying distraction not worth his time.

" What's Bart talking about? What's going on?" she asked.

John never took his gaze from Bart, as though doing so might give the creature the idea that the conversation was being dropped.

" Seems grandma's the big bad wolf," John stated. " Monsters of the woods my ass, Savine and her groupies are the ones doing the howling act. They're the one's that've been leaving skinned bodies on the wall. They're not all that human, Krissa. Your grandma's an honest to goodness – don't ask me how – shapeshifter. She can turn into a monster. She's the one forcing everyone to pull the disappearing act."

Krissa paused and looked up at John, searching his face, seeking out the signs that might reveal John wasn't being all that honest. But John was good with honesty, since even he was aware of his high intimidation level during moments of brutal veraciousness. He only had two dominating personalities – 'take it in stride' and 'don't put up with crap.' Although right now, it was more 'let's get the hell out of Dodge, now'.

" Not everyone," Bart chimed in.

John sucked in a sharp breath when Bren tightened the bandages. " What?"

" Savine was not responsible for every disappearance. Some of it was Diavante's doing."

Bren paused in tying the bandages to look up. Krissa slowed in her nervous cleaning, never looking, just listening intently with a paled face.

" I believe there is no reason to tell you, Mr. Sheppard," continued Bart, " that Diavante has taken a special interest in you. It is of no surprise, at least to me. You do come from the city that Master Diavante once called home."

John slowly straightened, and even Krissa couldn't hold back, and whipped her head around to give Bart the wide-eyed look of a deer caught in the headlights.

" Diavante's an Ancient?" John said.

" Ancient, Ancestor, whatever your preferred term. I have come to know all this during my assisting days with Madame Savine. Had to so that the goal of the experiments was made clear. Master Diavante was reknowned during his time when the water city was still occupied. Apparently – though here my knowledge is scattered – there were some discrepancies, some disagreements concerning many of his projects. Moral disagreements. It seems the belief that these projects were unethical and cruel was unanimous. Savine talked of it with Diavante. Diavante was quite insistent that this was not the case. But you have seen the storage cell, Mr. Sheppard. The judgment is more yours to make. Personally, I really don't care as long as I'm never asked to _test_ anything. But that is moot. To escape the 'prejudices' of his colleagues, Master Diavante traveled to many worlds. But I believe his real troubles began when he started doing deeper research on something known as 'ascension'. To hear Divante talk about it, he makes it sound as though it were nothing more than a dogmatic religious belief that held no real use. The only aspect of it to catch his interest was the immortality and power that came with it. He wanted to harness that power, but not at the price paid – namely leaving under the strict guidelines that came with being an ascended. Not that I blame these ascended people. Knowing Divante, and people like Savine, it is an unsettling thought picturing them with such powers."

John's mind went to Chaya, good, kind hearted but lonely Chaya. John had brooded on and off over what he had seen as a rather cruel fate – forever guard the world you love, but forever be alone. But by mentally replacing Chaya with Savine, seeing her with the same abilities, but without the heart – it was starting to make sense, and that tore him.

There were reasons for rules.

" The details of Diavante's experimentations with trying to harness the powers of the ascended are detailed, complicated and unpleasant to go into," Bart continued. " He... made some headway. His goal was reached halfway."

Bren had finished tying off the knot as Krissa began bandaging the gashes.

" Halfway?" John asked.

" Power was... sort of... achieved. He became immortal. But a price was paid. Master Diavante was altered in a way that is most inexplicable. The best that I can describe – he is caught between an ethereal and corporeal state. He can alternate his form, change its shape, become solid or become mist, but never anything definite. Whatever shape his form assumes, it is never complete or permanent. He hopes to remedy this through Savine's efforts. His ability to morph his shape was the final ingredient that made Savine's transformation serum possible. Really they were searching for a way to provide Diavante more stability in his form taking. He has the bio-structure of an incalculable number of creatures within him – including wraith. It has given Diavante a number of fascinating abilities. But I believe he is growing impatient. He must be. Savine has been very nervous as of late. Normally she is not so quick to kill off the competition. She is usually quite content to simply frighten them when they begin their attempts to break into the private labs."

When Krissa finished with the bandaging, she took up the busy work of precisely placing the medical items back into the kit, lining them up in a neat row, largest to smallest, adjusting when something didn't fit just quite right. Uneasy fidgeting was all it was, to keep the hands and the small, nagging parts of the mind busy.

John leaned forward with a pain-screwed face as far as his chest would allow, and rested his arms on his knees. " What about the other two, prince charming and the Genii soldier? What did they do to piss Diavante off?"

Bart narrowed his eyes. " Well, apparently, 'piss' you off. Logic dictates it since you were the one they last confronted. Talk of your dreams confirms it. I've heard your sleep mutterings, Mr. Sheppard. Perhaps you were not aware, but you were begging to be left alone. I have heard such mutterings before. Not always similar – some beg to know more or hear more. Others have gone as far as killing themselves to make it stop. Diavante has entered my mind to relay instructions. I am quite aware of how..." Bart shuddered, actually shuddered, but the facial features didn't even twitch, " unsavory it is. Unnatural."

" Disgusting," John spat. " Like someone's walking through your brain wearing muddy shoes and spraying a mud-filled hose."

" Quite," Bart replied. " Diavante cannot enter the minds of the awake. Too difficult. Dreams open up inner secrets for him. He has obviously found something in your mind he likes, or he would not have intervened as he had."

John shivered. " Should I be worried?"

Bart's response was a one shouldered shrug. " Difficult to say with Diavante. His mood shifts are unpredictably sudden. But had Diavante not taken a liking to you, you would have been dead weeks ago."

John eased back against the cushions of the couch with a moan and gritted teeth. He was still shaking, leaking adrenaline by the gallons that was putting his body into a state of lesser, non-threatening shock. It was making him cold, and so thirsty his tongue felt like leather that kept sticking to the roof of his mouth. Then there was the stinging, stabbing, burning, throbbing pains that were sending his stomach into acid-churning fits. He licked crack lips, but didn't have the saliva to remedy the dryness.

Krissa pushed the neatly arranged kit back beneath the bed. She then stood, and moved to sit beside John, hands lying loose in her lap, and eyes to the floor. She had turned inward toward thoughts that made the muscles of her brow twitch as though uncertain whether to furrow or smooth.

" Do you know why," John said, " Diavante's interested in me?"

" It is your head, Mr. Sheppard, not mine," Bart replied. " I am neither a mind or dream reader. Diavante's attempted discussions should give you some insight."

John closed his eyes and dropped his head back against the cushions. " Yeah, one happy trip down memory lane." He sighed. " He asked me about Atlantis."

" Homesick then, I suppose," Bart said.

John opened his eyes and squinted thoughtfully up at the ceiling going from writhing shadows to blue-gray spreading from the window and the outside world heading toward morning. Diavante's escapades through John's unconscious would have opened up quite a number of classified info – including the fact that Atlantis wasn't gone. John's heart skipped a number of beats.

Okay, so Diavante knew. If nostalgia and homesickness were all the Ancient were after, John would gladly give him a couple of mental pictures of the place in exchange that Diavante stay out of John's head. But if there was more, a plot behind the poking around, then John had stumbled into his all time screwup. The information in John's skull concerning the city could be the ultimate bidding item – sell out Atlantis for scraps of the rarest metal.

No, that didn't sound right. Atlantis was techno-paradise. With Diavante being the power hungry, die-hard scientist that Bart made him out to be, he'd be more inclined to take Atlantis for himself. That sounded more plausible, and slightly less intimidating. Give a little, get a little – if Diavante was willing not to be a stickler about his finds, Dr. Weir would probably be more than willing to let even a form-altered Ancient have run of a few devices.

Nope, that didn't sound quite right either. The Ancient had been run out of the city for ethical issues, and had butchered the art of Ascension. Not the kind of guy one would want tinkering with – for example – a drone chair, or a retrovirus. John's mind flashed to that nano-infection that had nearly half of Atlantis screaming in terror, and a few hemorrhaging to death.

No reason not to think that Diavante had played a hand in it. That disease had been pretty morally debased in a 'kill all inferior humans' kind of way. Had that been the ethical dilemma?

Another question – if Diavante is so homesick, why not just go home? He probably still recalled the address, he could have awakened the city himself. Unless he had forgotten. A couple of thousand years could really do a number on the brain, or so John assumed.

John's eyes slid closed, and he released a long, drawn out exhale that took the last of his meager energy with it. Even with the pain pulsating through him, it was at a lower frequency, and his muscles relinquished their tense hold.

" Why hasn't Diavante ever gone back to Atlantis?" John finally asked out loud, his words slurring.

" I don't know," was Bart's answers. " I'm not privy to all Diavante's plans and reasonings."

Bart's voice was starting to sound far off. John felt something in a detached sort of way – a very small increase of weight, softness, and warmth pooling around his shivering frame. Trembling decreased to muscle twitches, and his body completely lost the will to feel. He would have reveled in it, but all thought took him for a merry ride.

" _Joooohn._ "

The tone wasn't too happy. Caressing, more caressing, then a building, agonizing pressure at the back of his neck.

" _Atlantis! Oh my Atlantis!"_

John bolted his head up long before his sticky eyes could snap apart. He blinked away the goo trying to seal his eyes for good, and darted his gaze around the gray-lit parlor. The fire had diminished to glowing red embers and gray ash. Neither Bart nor Bren were present, but John could hear the rasping voice from the bedchamber caught up in a one sided conversation. He heard Savine's name mentioned, and the serum.

John turned his head to look the other way, and started on seeing Krissa still sitting rigidly beside him, staring at her hands resting in her lap. John pushed himself straighter, wincing, pulling the blanket back up that had slipped down his bare and bandaged chest.

" Were you sitting there all night?" he asked.

Krissa's index finger twitched. " Wasn't much night left anyways."

" Did you sleep?"

She shook her head. " I want to go home."

The innocence, vulnerability, and conviction of that statement had Krissa more a twelve year old than she had ever been since John had met her. Even younger, actually. Intelligence and harsh realities could have a mind skipping years, but it didn't create a grown-up overnight. There were limits that had even those of John's years and older reverting to the simple, straightforward, needs and desires normally seen only in children. Suicide runs, wraith ships, attempted culls had all reduced John at one time or another – for mere seconds – to begging for the simple desire of wanting to go home.

Krissa had just hit her limit.

" Bart told us about the serum," she said next.

" It explains a lot," John said.

" Savine could have killed you."

John smirked. " Not if Diavante has anything to say about it. He likes me, remember?"

" He wants something from you." She stated it monotone, as though coming to an unfavorable realization. " It's the only reason you're still alive. It's the only reason we're all still alive. He needs you, he needs me... But when he doesn't need us anymore..." She didn't finish because she didn't have to. She shivered.

John moved the blanket from himself to place it around Krissa's shoulders. The cool air of the fire-less room attacked without mercy, and his muscles tightened until they twitched. This didn't go past the ever observant Krissa.

" Don't do that, you don't need to. You're cold, I'm just scared." She took the blanket off and placed it over John's back. It made John laugh even with it seeming an inappropriate time for laughter.

" Who's taking care of who?"

Krissa allowed her lips to turn up in a small, wan smile. " You're protecting me, I'm taking care of you. That's what people do. So get used to it."

John, still chuckling, shook his head. " Man, my buddy McKay would love you."

Krissa placed her hand on his shoulder. " You're still shaking."

John nodded. " I'm still tired." He then cleared his throat. He had an idea, one that wasn't a long shot, but risky if Krissa didn't agree to it. But the girl needed to get away from this hell hole before absolute desensitization kicked in. She didn't deserve to be stuck in the devils' playground. " Krissa, listen... I have an idea about how to keep you safe without you having to be on the run all your life. But you have to promise me something. I need you to keep what I'm about to tell you a complete secret, all right? It's not a bad secret, but if others find out, bad things could happen. I'm putting a lot of people's lives at stake if I tell you what I'm about to tell you. I need you to realize this, and not tell anyone else."

Krissa, smile gone, nodded soberly. " I understand. I won't tell."

John cleared his throat again. Second thought was being a backseat driver, but he felt no qualms over what he was about to do. He trusted Krissa. Time to test that trust.

" Atlantis isn't gone. It wasn't destroyed. It was a rumor we started in order to keep the wraith from returning. But the city is still around. And if we can get out of here, I can take you there. You'll be safe. You won't have to run. But it means having to lie. We wouldn't keep you there, you could visit your family and stuff, but you wouldn't be able to tell them the truth. It's not that we don't trust your people, we just have to play it safe. You know the wraith, what they can do, find out. We can't risk them finding out Atlantis is still around."

Krissa, however, seemed not to have heard the part about having to lie. Her face lit up like a spotlight and her next smile was the kind that went all the way to her eyes. For the first time in days, she was genuinely happy.

" Really? You'd let me come to the water city? To live!"

" Shh!" John hissed. " Not so loud."

" Oh, we can trust Bren, and Bart of course..."

" That's not what I meant. The doors aren't exactly soundproof here. But yeah, I'll take you to Atlantis."

Krissa suddenly leaped forward and threw her arms around John's neck. " Thank you, thank you, thank you Mr. Sheppard, thank you...!"

John, clenching his jaw to stifle a grin, had to pry Krissa's arms from off his sore neck. " All right, all right, thank me when we actually cross the Stargate. We do this auction thing, then we go."

Krissa nodded excitedly. When Bren and Bart entered the room, Krissa burst to her feet and ran to the older man, throwing her arms around his waist.

" Mr. Sheppard has offered us sanctuary!"

Bren looked down at Krissa, then at John.

" When I head home, you can come with me," John said. Bren smiled and patted Krissa's back.

John looked at Bart. " You want in on this?"

Bart narrowed his eyes. " Master Diavante will not be happy should he find out about this."

John stood, keeping the blanket pulled tight around his shoulders. " What's the big deal? Krissa said she's only able to make so many of the sils. She makes one, gives your boss the blueprints, then he doesn't need her anymore and she can go where she pleases. It's not like we're bailing on him right here and now."

" Except that Diavante will not want her to go," Bart said. He turned to Krissa. The girl's smile was wavering, ready to plummet back into a frown, and did at Bart's scowl. " Mr. Sheppard is not the only one holding Diavante's interests."

Krissa released Bren and regarded Bart with growing trepidation. " I'm aware. I would not have been invited if Diavante had not found interest in my work."

Bart shook his head. " No Miss Krissa, it is more than that. The details are vague even to me, and what I know I know only from snatches of conversation. Before the competition, of all the candidates considered, _you_ were the one Diavante talked of the most. He knew of your inventions, including that of the sil and your prototype. Much of his focus was on you, but I cannot say why. I believe the sil has involvement, since – as you know – it was at the top of the list he sent you of inventions he wished you to create. Miss Krissa, I can honestly say you have a place on his staff even though the contest is not over. Really, the contest is nothing more than a way to fill a few vacant spaces left by those who – to put it mildly – didn't come through. But you – you've already won. Now that Diavante has you, he's not going to let you go so easily. I am sorry."

Hope drained from Krissa, along with the color in her face. " W-what?"

John glared at Bart. " She's stuck here?"

Bart turned to face John. The genetic hob-goblin was still scowling. " You are surprised? Those were the conditions of the competition. The place is permanent until services are no longer required, and Miss Krissa's services have been very much required."

" Why?" John pressed. " If she gives him the sil and the plans..."

" My guess," Bart interrupted as though trying to hurry things along. " Is that he may not want Miss Krissa where others could reach her and discover how to build a sil of their own. Diavante has been known to – prevent such things."

" What do you mean _prevent_?"

" If a staff member becomes obsolete but carries knowledge concerning certain devices Diavante does not want others to know about, Diavante does what he feels he must to prevent that member from going out into the world. And Diavante is quite adept and making others disappear. Do you understand what I am saying, Mr. Sheppard?"

John sneered in disgust. " Yeah, he kills them."

" Exactly. And personally I do not wish to see Miss Krissa suffer the same fate. Diavante's interest in the sil tells me that he would go to such lengths. The sil is worth a great deal, though I am uncertain as to how much. As I have said, I am not privy to all his plans."

John began pacing in long angry strides. The warning klaxons in his skull were back, melded with a cacophony of voices screaming warnings. This wasn't just about Diavante's murderous streak or that Savine could go Incredible Hulk on a whim. This was about a device that could break down shields, and Diavante's interest in Atlantis. It was natural for him to put the two together, but that didn't mean there was a connection. Diavante had his opportunities to go home, unless he was missing something. The sil could be nothing more than his potentially hottest selling item. John could be jumping to conclusions, but he wasn't going to be stupid enough to disregard the warnings a third time around.

He forced himself with a shudder to recall Diavante's mental visitations. The recent one had Diavante sounding pissed, then desperate. Homesickness to a psychotic degree. Maybe he was going to attempt heading home, and needed the sil to get passed the gate's shield.

And yet he had all that time before to take Atlantis back, so why now?

John hated crap like this. It was all reasoning bouncing off the walls with out a direction to show for it.

 _Screw Diavante then._

" Krissa, is the sil almost done?"

Krissa nodded.

" Then let's use it to get out of here, get through Diavante's shield. As long as he doesn't have the sil, he can't get to us. Our gate has its own shield..."

" Oh," Bart said, " Diavante doesn't need a sil to get through a shield. He has the means of energizing his body enough to disrupt any shielding long enough for him to get through. Only him though. No one else could follow."

John jerked to a stop. " Then why the hell does he want a device that can break down shields!" The thought of Diavante selling out Atlantis, then handing over the sil as a bonus for the lucky party to use and attack, raced back into John's mind. John passed his hands up his face then through his hair, gripping it, pulling his scalp back. " Son of a bitch! We can't let him have that thing, that's all there is to it. Forget the auction, forget waiting around. We need to just go. This is messed up enough and to tell you the truth I don't care what Diavante's plans are just so long as we're thousands of light years away while he's plotting them."

" You cannot leave," Bart said. " Savine will prevent that, and she will not hesitate to kill you. Whatever Diavante's interest in you, Master Sheppard, it will change if you aid Krissa in escaping. Savine will kill both you and Mr. Bren, and bring Krissa back."

" Then help us out here! Isn't that why you've been telling us all this, because you don't want to see us die? Kind of pointless to let the cat out of the bag only to have the cat get hit by a car. I mean, come on, it can't just be over that quick. There has to be a way out of this place, out of these woods."

" I saw some prairie vrat in the stalls," Krissa said. " They're fast..."

" Savine's men are faster."

" Then what do we do!" John practically screamed. " Special interest or not, one of us is going to end up dead! Now, later, it doesn't matter! We -can't – stay -here."

For the first to top all firsts, Bart adopted another expression, a new one John thought he would have never seen. The genetic hob-goblin's ears sagged, and the brow turned up. Bart was wearing a look of sorrow, honest to goodness sorrow, eyes shimmering and everything. John was thrown, stunned into silence.

" I am most sorry, Mr. Sheppard. I do not wish harm to come to any of you. That is why I revealed all this to you. I thought revealing all that goes on here would help keep you safe _while_ you live here. Escape," Bart shook his head, " It's not possible, not with Savine and her men assigned to keep you here."

" Hey, I took one down," John countered.

" Because they were forced to hesitate," Bart said. " They will not hesitate again."

" I can take them again!" John insisted.

" Not in your current state. You've been hurt."

John resumed his pace, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders. " I'll think of something." He didn't really believe that himself, but he could try. He found no comfort in the relative safety that this 'interest' of Diavante's had wrapped them in. They had until the competition, and after the competition, and whatever else time they needed so long as their usefullness or interest or whatever remained intact. It just didn't feel like it. It felt more along the lines of having no time at all.

TBC...


	20. What it Takes

John was now reliant on Bren for shirts. His own was a lost cause.

Sheppard was in a crouch with elbows on his knees and hands running back and forth through his hair.

 _Think think think think think think you moron!_ There was a muted desperation thickening the air around them, and yet they had all the time in the world. Bren had taken to wandering haphazardly throughout the room as his own form of wracking his brain. Bart had gone to fetch them breakfast. Krissa was still rooted to the same spot when Bart had given them the bad news that residence was permanent.

Whether today, tomorrow, or in a month, they needed to get out. Time wouldn't have felt like such a back-stabber, except that John was set on keeping the sil from becoming a part of the auction or whatever plan Diavante had in store for it.

John raised his head enough to see Krissa. She still hadn't moved, as though someone had hit pause on her only. Guilt drilled a hole through John's chest. Circumstances were beyond anyones control, but guilt didn't give that much regard. John's presence alone, his sudden appearance into Krissa's life, was enough for John to start considering how much of all this was his fault. Perhaps, had he not shown up at all, Krissa would be none the wiser as to what was going on, and could have remained under Diavante's care in youthful, ignorant bliss.

 _Get real, John. She's not an idiot. She'd find out eventually._ It did nothing to satisfy the guilt. She would have found out, but ignorance would have bought her a little extra time with peace.

 _Then when Diavante didn't have any use for her...?_

He could have had use for her until she died of old age.

 _Think Savine would have let that happen?_

Diavante has Savine on a leash.

 _You sure?_

Too much to speculate on. It was all 'what ifs' anyways. And what it all came down to were the screams of warning in John's head, and his now conditioned nature to listen to them.

John lowered his head to stare at his own shadow. This wasn't going to be another Mather's ordeal. He'd listen, he swore to listen, on his life. This time he'd do it right. This time, he'd be the one to throw himself at the claws.

He felt a cool hand on his back, and snapped his head up and around. Krissa was standing beside him, and her soul deep concern was bringing her to tears. She quickly wiped them away.

" You feel warm. And you're shaking. And Bart's right, you can't take them. They'll kill you." She spoke fast, forcing the words out before they became lodged in her throat permanently. " I won't finish the sil. That should buy us more time to come up with a plan..."

John shook his head. " It might make things worse. Besides, Diavante's a dream reader. Whatever we plan, he'll find out and stop us."

Well, there was one reason why time felt like the enemy. Anything they planned needed a quick execution while Diavante was still clueless. Unless he was listening in on them now, wearing an ethereal form, moving with the air, even allowing himself to be breathed into the lungs...

 _That's freakin' sick!_ But probably not impossible. It was paranoia with good reason.

" I don't want him to have the sil," Krissa said with finality. " I don't want it ending up in the wrong hands. I don't want to be a part of his staff. This place is... is evil."

John nodded his assent.

But," she said, " if I have to stay – just a little longer..."

Krissa crouched down beside John, and when she spoke, it was in an urgent whisper. " John. You're sick. Not getting sick, you are sick. It's an illness common to our world. It incubates slowly, but soon you'll start having difficulty breathing. I'm willing to stay, just until you get better. You can be treated here. If we were to leave, it would have to be now before the virus affects your lungs, or you will die."

John wanted to pound his own body for all the grief it was giving him.

The door of the parlor opened, and Bart backed in balancing a tray with a bowl of fruit, plate of bread, jar, mugs, and a tea-pot. He set the tray on the nearest stand and proceeded to pour a hot yellow liquid into each of the cups. One cup he spooned a glob of what looked to be violet honey from the jar, and stirred. This one he brought to John.

John eyed it with increasing dislike. " What the crap was that you put in there?"

" Milwood sap," Krissa explained. " I asked Bart to. It'll help with what you have, trust me."

John, rocking back into a sitting position on the floor, took the mug. It didn't smell half bad, like chamomile tea. He smirked.

" Maybe I should just cough on Savine and her pals. Slow them down with what I got." He took a sip. It was sweet, like real honey.

" It's not easy to catch," Krissa said. "I think you got it because of all your cuts, and your lack of good sleep."

" Besides," said Bart. " Savine and her men would be over the virus within days, three at the most. A quirk of the serum is the quick regenerative nature – an unforeseen but favorable side effect from using Diavante's bio-structure."

John choked and sputtered on the drink, coughing half of it back out. " Whoa, whoa, whoa," he croaked. " They can heal themselves?"

" Not heal themselves, simply heal quickly. It's not always one hundred percent, as can be seen with Mr. Vice who had had his ankle injured. But injuries that might have taken weeks or months take days. Diseases especially so."

John scrambled to his feet with tea sloshing over the rim of his mug and onto his hand. He barely noticed the scalding heat. " Then that's it. That's what we can do."

Krissa took the mug from him, passing it off to Bart, and took John's hand to check the reddening area. " What, what's it? and hold still!"

John crouched to be face to face with Krissa. " The serum. I can take the serum..."

Krissa dropped John's hand and slowly began to back away, her eyes round, her head shaking. Bren stopped his pacing and gave John a look of horrified incredulity. Bart just lifted its brow.

" What?" John said. " One injection, one time. Bart says this stuff wears off. It wouldn't be permanent. I'd be able to take down Savine and her goons."

Krissa stopped moving, yet went on shaking her head. " No. John, no, you can't. You can't do that. It would be like... be like... becoming Savine. You'd be like her."

John shook his head vehemently. " No, no I wouldn't, because I'm not like Savine. Bart, you said this serum maps the form according to personality, right?"

Bart nodded.

" And I'm not a power hungry loon, Krissa. You want to get out of here...?"

" Not in that way!"

" Krissa, it may be our only way. Maybe not now but eventually. And, if you want to know the truth, I want to go home too. I don't want to stay here any more, and not any longer than we have to. When opportunity knocks, you take it. We have an opportunity, I say we take it. Or at least give it a try. Whatever happens, at least I'll have the means to protect you."

Krissa looked ready to burst into tears. " John, no. It's unnatural."

" But not forever." He moved over to Krissa, knelt in front of her, and took her by both shoulders. " Listen, if we were to do this, I could buy you time to get away. You take those prairie vrat you talked about, and the sil. You wait – say five minutes – give me time to get Savine's attention, to get her and the goons to start hunting me. Then you take off. I keep them busy, and you ride like hell to the edge of the shield. In a form like what Savine and the others have, I'd have a better chance of taking them down. I wouldn't even go by tooth and claw and whatever, I'd be armed. I'll take them out, then catch up to you. I mean I can't take you with me if I'm not there to take you, right? But I need to be able to fight back, which means having to do whatever it takes... and if whatever it takes means temporarily mutating myself, then I'll mutate myself."

Krissa's breath caught in a sob. She kept shaking her head, but all words had become stuck.

Bren's thick hand set on Krissa's shoulder. She looked up at him, and he handed over the pad.

" Bren agrees with you," Krissa said in a hitched voice. " He says he talked to Bart about the serum, and believes your plan could work. He says we should do it, because we shouldn't be here anymore. It's too dangerous."

She handed him back the pad, looking up into his wrinkled face. " You're that sure?"

Bren nodded.

Krissa released a shuddering breath. " If we have to," she looked at John in sorrowful defeat, " then we have to."

SGASGASGASGA

Sparks strobed light off of Krissa's face, spilling from the tiny welder like a shower of stars. " Almost done," she announced.

John was pacing caged-tiger manner before the door. The excitement of his plan had been short lived, and he was left scared stupid. He clenched his fists, rubbed his hands together, ran his fingers through his hair forwards, backwards, then down his face. Sitting still – sitting at all – was out of the question, and second thought ran rampant as a twister through his mind.

What was he doing? He'd survived one potential transformation and – apparently – hadn't learned any freakin' lesson from it. To do it again, and voluntarily, had to be saying something negative concerning his psyche. Desperation hitting an all time low. But John had had his fair share of necessary evils, so what was one more in the long run?

 _Permanent physical/mental damage?_ Possibly. Bart, however, was quite confident that wouldn't be the case. He seemed to trust in the serum, and seeing as how he'd been around for its creation, John trusted that Bart knew what it was talking about.

" Done!"

John jumped at Krissa's shrill announcement. The girl had the sil raised in both hands for a last minute perusal. John moved over to her and joined in the scrutiny. On one control panel was a tiny screen, the other a key pad.

" There are four codes," Krissa explained. " One for identification, one to activate, one to deactivate, and one to emit a pulse that counters any other sil being used." She placed the cylindrical tube in the foam padded interior of another, smaller holding case, and snapped the lid shut. " I've written down the codes, but in alternate order." She took three slips of paper from her dress pocket and handed one to John and the other to Bren. " The first is deactivation, the second the pulse, the third activation, and the fourth identification. I know it's silly, but I also know we won't have time to memorize, and I wanted to play it safe."

John looked over the numbers several times, then stuffed the paper in the pocket of his pants. Memorization was never an issue for him. Important numbers tended to fuse themselves to his brain.

Krissa turned to John and stared up at him. " Are you sure about this?" Her sorrowful worry was tearing John's heart to shreds.

" No," he admitted with a slight waver. He forced his mouth to turn up in a weak grin. " But I'm willing."

The door groaned open and all three turned to see Bart's entrance. The genetic hob-goblin had a case in one claw, and set it and a keycard on the table, clicking the latches of the case open.

" Any trouble?" John asked, eyes glued to the silver case. Bart opened it, and pulled out three viles and three syringes.

So administration was going to be done the hard way. Thankfully, numerous infirmary visits had toughened John's skin.

" No," Bart said. " Which is quite disconcerting. Savine's absence in her lab means that she is going after another. And seeing as how the two remaining candidates are in their own lab, it must be that Mr. Lorel," Bart looked at John. " Another of Diavante's specially chosen, part of his bio staff. He has apparently, finally, managed to obtain a small portion of Savine's research notes. She's been suspecting it, but never found the proof... until now. And she normally has little concern over the possibility of one of my brethren breaking into her lab. We've never had reason to."

" Sure you won't get in trouble for this?" John asked.

Bart sniffed. " No. As long as I return the card to my brother 332, she will most likely blame one of you three for the theft."

John snorted. " Oh that's a lovely reassurance."

" But I believe it is what you want? For Savine to go after you?"

" Me, just me."

" That's what I meant." Bart filled all three syringes; one with a clear liquid, another with a yellow, the final with black – three step mixtures to doomsday. John swallowed against a tight throat and chest.

With the syringes filled, Bart turned to the present company. " We are going to need room."

The tables weren't light, but they slid easily enough at the price of a scuffed up floor. Everything was pushed or carried to the walls, leaving a massive empty space in the center of the room where John now stood.

Bart stood five feet away holding the case with the three syringes in it.

" The order goes as follows," he explained. " The clear is to be injected into the spine..."

John winced.

" The second, the heart for quick dispersal."

John cringed.

" That black, any vein will do."

Not so bad, but John was still cringing over the one to go in the heart.

" And it's best not to be standing," Bart went on. " Side effects include dizziness, nausea, rapid heartbeat, and muscle aches."

" So in other words, the flu," John said.

Bart just sniffed.

John inhaled deep as he could, stopping at the point just before pain erupted. His exhale was an unsteady shuddering, as though even his lungs were trembling. He knelt to the cold floor, then unbuttoned the shirt and shrugged it off, letting it crumple to the floor, then followed up with the chest bandage. Bren picked up the first syringe and placed himself standing behind Sheppard. Krissa stood before him, clutching her hands together until they were bone white.

John was well aware his present appearance wasn't helping her state of mind. Skinny, pale, cringing, shivering, pathetically fragile seeming mess of a human being multicolored by bruises and scabs. That kind of appearance tended to dampen all hope. Add to that his slipping toward ill health, and he wouldn't fault Krissa for wondering how the hell this man was going to protect her.

He was also well aware that she saw his fear, because he couldn't hide it, hard as he tried. He should have taken the time to puke, because he wanted to, and his heart was a hammer cracking through his ribs.

Krissa blinked rapidly to fight the tears, but they still fell. " You don't have to do this..." her voice broke off, and she gulped.

" I want to," John kindly replied. " I always do what it takes. Just ask my friends when you meet them. They'll tell you."

The clamped hands shook, then suddenly pulled apart for Krissa to rush forward and embrace John around the chest, firm, but loose enough not to cause pain. Her head was against his shoulder, hot tears dripping onto his skin.

" Thank you. Thank you so much..." she wept. " You don't have to..."

John wrapped his own arms around her. " Sorry kid. Yes I do."

He then pulled her away. " Let's do this before I change my mind."

Krissa, still sobbing, took several reluctant steps back. Bren clasped John's shoulder, stepping to the side to give him a reassuring nod. John nodded back. He bent forward, curving his back and spreading his vertebrae. He rested his head against his arms and clutched his hair.

" Do it fast... but carefully!"

He felt Bren's hand on his shoulder blade. Then he felt the pinch, and the pain. It probably took no more than five seconds – in, inject, out. The radiating burn crawling up and down his backbone turned it into fifteen minutes of hell. He whimpered, then groaned, then growled a scream through clenched teeth. His hands shook, and had he pulled his arms away would have taken some of his hair with it.

But the pain passed. John seethed with tears tracing heat down his face. Where as he was shivering before, he was all out shaking now, and still felt lingering spots of heat along his back.

Bren moved to the front, exchanging one syringe for the next. He placed one hand on John's shoulder above the collar bone and helped the younger man straighten. John gulped in several breaths and tilted his head back so he wouldn't have to watch.

 _Please don't let this crap give me a heart attack._

" This is gonna suck so bad," he moaned, and closed his eyes. He flinched at Bren's probing the chest for the space between the ribs. Following that was the pinch, and John held his breath to keep his chest from altering the needle's course.

Less pain, one with the needle being smaller, and two with the serum feeling cold rather than like acid. It spread through his pounding heart, then into the veins, and dispersion diminished it until the cold was gone. When the needle was removed, John released his held breath.

John coughed out a wan laugh. " Not too bad."

Bren took the final needle, and John's arm. He plunged the business end into the vein at the crook. Definitely the lesser of all three of the little demon elixirs. No pain, no anything say for the usual pinch.

It was done. John could officially call himself a member of the league of monsters. Except that nothing was happening.

John looked to Bart. " Now what?"

" Now, you wait."

" How will I know when it's taken effect? Crap load of agony, changing without realizing, what?"

Bart shrugged. " I don't know. Definitely not pain. Savine showed know signs of pain when she first took the formula."

Some of the tension left John's strained muscles. " Finally some good news. So... I guess... we get ready to go."

Krissa, wiping her eyes, and less rigid now that John's body hadn't exploded with pain and scales, moved forward. " When?"

She sounded hopeful, and John was glad to see it still remained.

" Tonight, while Savine and her buddies are busy." John looked at Bart. " Sure you don't want to come with us?"

Bart snapped the lid of the case shut. " My place is here, Mr. Sheppard."

" But Diavante..."

" Will not know. He may speak to me in my sleep... but I do not dream. My kind has a very disciplined mind." The genetic goblin smiled a very creepy smirk, making John glad to have gotten on its good side from the start.

" My part in your plight is done, Mr. Sheppard," Bart went on. " And I wish you good tidings for whatever happens next."

John, rising, took one the the creature's claws and shook it. " Glad to have known you, then."

" Likewise, Mr. Sheppard. Likewise."

SGASGASGASGA

They packed by throwing what they could into two single gunny sacks, then hightailing it from the room, down the stairs, through the night-drenched corridors, dining hall, and kitchens to stop at the side door leading to the stable paddock. All the while, Sheppard led the way, feeling hide nor hair of the side effects Bart had mentioned. But that was the deal concerning side affects – they didn't affect everyone.

Their breathing was harsh and octaves too loud in the perfect silence. Midnight, always a good time to be out and about. With the majority of the world down for the night, that same world belonged souly to the few creeping about the darkness. Silence was once again a friend, betraying all else to them alone.

John pressed his ear to the thick wood of the door, not too thick to keep out the mutant howling were it shredding the air. Satisfied by more silence, John turned to his companions.

" All right, sounds good so far. Remember, keep to the shadows when moving to the stalls. Have the vrats saddled and ready, wait ten minutes, and guide them – _guide them_ , not ride – out the stables and into the woods. You see anything, don't move, head back to the stables if you can, or go deeper into the woods. Don't let them catch you in the open."

Bren and Krissa nodded, Bren stern, Krissa scared but resolved, clutching the sil's case to her chest.

" Be careful, Mr. Sheppard," was Krissa's quaking response.

John gave her his best crooked smile. " See you when daylight comes," he said as his farewell. With a quick adjustment to the makeshift strap of his weapon, John turned to the door, hauled it open, and slipped out crouching within the shadow of the mansion. He brought the P-90 around with the light kept off. He assumed – hoped – that this super serum would kick in at the first sign of danger, pull a Hulk, and have him in creature form before he was pounced.

John kept in a crouch as he followed the wall to the first stable where the prairie vrat were kept – bigger than a regular vrat and darker colored according to Krissa. He could hear the animals' restless snorts and gutteral grunts. They were hot and bothered, but not terrified. No dangers here, but dangers somewhere.

He checked all the same, sliding through the door with animal musk hitting his sense of smell like an aluminum bat. The things stank, more so than usual. John risked clicking on the light for a quick pass, making several vrats and hairy horses start and snort.

" Can it," John murmured. He slid back out of the stable, and flashed his light three times toward the door, then moved on to the next stable.

Overhead, thunder rumbled and vibrated the air. Water scented heavy in the rising wind. There was a a flickering flash that lit the sky in electric blue, and created spastic shadows on the ground. The cracking thunder followed five Mississipi's later. John entered the second stable and flashed his light into the darkened stalls and corners. More grunts of protest. John patted the nearest vrat's neck.

" You'd tell me if the bad guys were here, right?"

The vrat clacked its jaw and snorted.

Another flash, brighter, longer, with thunder that could have split rock three Mississippis after. Two seconds later, the deluge came as though someone had ripped the clouds open. The rain fell in solid, glittering sheets, rattling off the roof and being spat out by gutters. John sighed heavily. He was already cold. Being drenched would send him into hypothermia. John's muscles began to ache in dreaded anticipation.

Ache. A symptom? Gosh, John hoped so. He attempted willing the form to happen, wishing it, cajoling it, picturing what he hoped he looked like – were-wolf, naturally, since that was all he could think of. Although it probably wasn't a good idea to do it in the stable. He stepped out into the deluge, soaked before he could blink, and shivering as expected. He looked over at the high paddock wall that wasn't going to prove an easy climb now that it was wet. He headed across the paddock to the gate, kicking up sprays of water. The curtains of rain and darkness had blinded John, and only the jagged flashes of lightning revealed anything.

The gate was locked.

 _Gee, John, didn't see that coming?_ Still, he gripped the thing by one of the bars and rattled it, half hoping with some measure of pleading that super strength came before the change.

 _Come on you stupid serum, work! Work! Work! Damnit work!_ John dropped his forehead against the arctic metal of the bar. Second thought was laughing at him.

 _Told you so_. Perhaps they needed to wait, let the serum absorb into his system better, try again tomorrow. John would go back to the stable, get Bren and Krissa, try again...

A howl sounded distantly. Not close enough to panic about, but present so plenty to worry over. John closed his eyes. His chest itched on the inside – lovely. They couldn't wait, not if the serum was taking its sweet time and the virus kicked in hard and vicious in the meantime. Now or never, now or never...

 _You stubborn SOB, come on! We have to leave now! Krissa can't stay here. Atlantis may be in trouble. Just change!_

John's heart pounded in rising fury that heated his skin. Then it pounded faster, so fast he had to pant just to keep the oxygen rate up with the blood. He lowered his hand to his chest, pressed it over his heart, felt the throb slapping his palm. The only time his heart pounded like that...

Was never. It was going too fast. He couldn't breathe.

John lurched drunkenly away from the gate with his legs going to jelly. He stumbled, wavered, and finally fell to his back, chest heaving, sucking in more air than his broken ribs and suddenly small lungs could handle. Fear wrapped itself around his throat, squeezing. He didn't understand... something was happening... sickness? He was scared, so scared. It was a fear that consumed him, forced him to curl onto his side in a ball, ignoring all else say for the childish mental whimper...

 _I want to go home._

But there was no pain, only a shift in his surroundings. The dark wasn't so dark, the animal musk reached him through the downpour from across the paddock, patting rain came out sounding like hail hitting a tin roof. John shrank from it, but it wasn't like he could shrink away from his own senses.

What happened next stunned him to the soul, silencing voice and body. He stilled, and _felt_ himself become... another self. Like ice melting into water under a summer sun, his familiar form melted, and the change manifest into a mental image in his brain. Bones lengthening, face elongating into a snout, scales sprouting across his skin. He writhed in uncertainty, pawing at the muddy ground with curling hands and extending claws. Moans turned into grunts, whimpers into hisses. Arm-length spines slid from him along the backbone, and two longer from above the shoulder blades. Ridged horns, fleshy whiskers along the jaw, and a single whisker, long and supple, extending from beneath both eyes all the way past his shoulders – same length as the horns. He pushed himself onto four long, steady limbs, stumbled, fell, and pushed himself upright once more.

It was freakin' insane. John's awareness of himself was minimized to basic needs and goals; protect, maintain, hunt, kill. No room for contemplation concerning the new self. No time. He smelled scents through the moisture beyond animal and human – a combination of both. His tongue snaked out to taste the air, and the scent became tangible. His first act – protect. He turned to the solid gate and reared up on hind legs, clutching the bars in his claws and yanking in a shriek of metal until the gate tore from the wall. He tossed it aside to let it splash on the saturated ground.

He hissed, and crouched like a slinking cat coming up behind the bird. He made for the wall with a smooth, sliding grace as though he were more a limbless snake than four legged whatever. Rain beat on his back to go sliding down glass-smooth, tightly knit scales gray and black in color. John could see the rain through the darkness. Everything was far sharper, like a black and white photo only hinting toward prismatic.

He ripped off his boots with his mouth before he hunched back on his haunches and leaped with the same cat-like grace onto the wall. He perched there, assessing his surroundings, going for the best course. His uninhibited gaze fell to the high, gabled roofs of the mansion.

Birds eye view – perfect. John grinned. He adjusted his P-90 to ride his back, and slunk over the wall to where it joined the structure. Once there, he dug his curved claws into the stone, and climbed gecko-like up and up until he slipped over the roof.

King of the upper places. Very perfect.

TBC...


	21. Devil Take the Hindmost

Devil Take the Hindmost

 _The Slithery-Dee, he came out of the sea. He ate all the others, But he didn't eat me._

 _The Slithery-Dee, he came out of the sea. He ate all the other, but he didn't eat... S-L-U-R-P!_

 _Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark_

John's claws pricked the rain-slicked roof tiles creating a traction like tire chains on rough pavement. He kept his slender body low, sliding with a sinewy flexibility as though he were more cartilage than bone. The mismatched obstacle that was the mansion roof was about as hindering to him as a flat, grass-less open plain. His body curved and twisted to the sudden and sharp contour changes that liked to come out of nowhere. His trail – the unseen river of scent that combined the sweat of human, and something the automatic parts of his brain registered as inhuman.

Much for John had become automatic, with humanity observing from the sidelines of consciousness. John was still John, his body – different, granted – still his body. But it was as though a little voice – without speaking actual words – instructed John on how to be and what to do, and all instinct told him to listen, so he did without question.

Scurry here, scurry there, pause and sniff. The enemy is close, closer, keep to the edge of the roof, a sound, pause, don't move, look down.

Movement through the rain, blacker than the black rushing across a lawn now more like a lake with an inch covering of water. This is the inner court. Sheds, old smithee...

Thought process moved fast and calculating. John had always been adept at taking in his surroundings at a glance, but the speed at which everything registered now made his former experience more green. It was more than just sight and sound that defined his space – there was smell, and feel. He observed all that he saw with an eye single to the goal of seek and destroy - places to hide, places to wait, places he could slip in and out of easily. Plans were formed, and back up plans from A to Z. The mind worked quickly, because it was focused to a needle point.

The form limped to the smithee with the upper windows of the loft illuminated by a weak, amber light. Shadows slipped in and out of the lit squares, and through the pelting rain John caught the low murmur of conversation.

John moved over the edge of the roof and down the wall half way in order to leap onto the nearest storage shed, then on to the next shed. Once near enough to the smithee, he scurried down the wall, across the flooded court, and up the stone edifice to just below the glowing square. He pulled himself up, inch at a time, until he was able to peer in.

Savine, standing before a wooden table, cleaning her bloodied hands in a metal basin. The scent of blood was pungent, like metal and rot. Vice, pacing, limping, wiping his hands on a cloth. The other man, Nor? No where.

" Diavante should have done away with him," Savine was saying. " The man was ambitious. He came to meet his own ends, take what Diavante has. Why did I have to be the one to finish him? It is a hassle!"

" Gives one something to do," Vice said without expression.

" Not if they don't put up a fight. He didn't even try. Just ran to a corner and cried like an infant." Savine pulled her hands from the water, flicked drops from her fingers, then sent the basin flying with a flick of her arm. Water-thinned blood splattered onto the wall and ran down in staining rivulets.

A howl tore through the rain muffled air. Savine and Vice paused, sniffing like hounds catching the scent.

" Nor's found something," Vice said. The howl was long and drawn out. When it died, it immediately resumed.

Savine's lips curled. " That damned little brat!" The two wasted no time tearing from the room and down the ladder. They emerged from the smithee no longer human, Vice stalking even with a gimping leg, and Savine hulking.

It was time.

John waited until the two beasts split up around the nearest shed. He then leaped from the wall to go bounding across the flood, straight at Savine's broad, clothes-tattered back. With a hiss, he leaped and latched onto the thick, pasty, leathery skin. Claws that could slice stone buried deep into the flesh, and serrated teeth followed.

Savine reared, arched, and howled. Gorilla arms swung around to grab John, but John leaped away backwards, splashing when he landed. Savine turned, jutting lower jaw spilling rivers of rain and saliva. On sighting John, that jaw fell open, and the narrow red eyes went as round as moons.

John had his body low to the ground. Yes, it made him appear smaller, but it allowed his limbs a stance that was at the ready, but still easily mobile. He hissed, spines standing up like prickling fur, and began to move sideways one paw at a time. His feet and hands sank into the soft earth, sucking when lifted out, and gurgling when put back down. There was an advantage to this. Savine's bulk would have her sinking deeper, hindering movements. John, being lighter, didn't go down so deep. Even now, the water came up past Savine's bare ankles.

Size did matter, but then so did the situation. The ball was in John's court.

Savine shook with rage. She opened her maw wide enough to take John's head off and let rip a bone rattling roar. She charged, her steps lumbering and hindered by mud and water. John charged as well, flying over the ground. Savine ducked with arms outstretched to grab the lighter beast, only John leaped, landing on Savine's back to clamor over her and tear away.

One at a time. He wanted to save Savine for last. Vice would be the easier target.

Speak of the devil... Vice came charging around the corner only to skid to a stop when John came at him. But John didn't even slow, he veered, snapping his jaws inches from Vice's throat. He needed to get Vice where Savine couldn't intervene. So John raced to the mansion and scurried up the walls, chancing a glance to see Vice following as planned, snarling and ripping into the stone with mad, animal fury.

Feral, blood lust. John assessed his enemy in that glance. Vice – all animal. Savine too. What is it Bart had said? Power, it was about power. Savine basked in the power of her serum, so she was all muscle, all strength. Vice, Nor, the late Rint – all about the hunt, about fear, like eraks. They instilled it, sniffed it out, and killed without conscience. They had to in order to do what they did. It was all about the hunt, the kill.

No strategy.

John led the chase onto the roof, bounding over the treacherous slants and gables with Vice clattering behind, snarling, hissing, and bellowing out a massive roar.

Higher up, increase distance to the ground, height always an advantage. The air was John's, always had been. His domain, his ally, his rules. Bring the enemy into his territory, simple enough. Let him drop, fall, shatter with bullets to the brain. _Here kitty, kitty, kitty... Johnny wants to play hide and go seek._

John increased his speed, creating distance, then whipping over to the other side of the roof. He doubled back to do another whip-around and crouch behind a wide chimney. He heard the scrape of claws signifying Vice's sudden stop, followed by the rushing whuffs of the leather-scaled creature sniffing the wet air. Claws clacked, growing louder as they came nearer.

John climbed the chimney halfway, clinging to it, his dark coloring and clothes melding him with the dark gray shades of the brickwork.

Vice's sniffing sounded just on the other side. Then the saurian head poked around the corner. He'd track the scent. John moved his arm slow, as though moving through water, reaching out behind himself, wrapping claws around his P-90.

 _Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait..._

Lightning flickered, seven seconds away when the cracking thunder followed. Vice was right beneath John, nose to the chimney, sniffing at John's altered scent. Vice snorted his frustration, knowing John was here, because the scent was no where else to be found.

Then Vice looked up.

John squeezed the trigger, and light flashed successively as bullets shredded Vice's face, puncturing his eyes, ripping into his throat when he opened his mouth to roar out his pain. Vice reared to claw at his mutilated face, and his already precarious balance threatened to give as he stumbled drunkenly back.

John leaped from the chimney, charged across the roof, leaped up, and kicked out with both legs into Vice's exposed chest. Vice went flying backwards to land and go sliding and tumbling down the slick tiles. Then Vice was airborne, letting loose a terrified howl. It ended abruptly with a thump and a crack. John scurried over to the roof's edge to peer down. Vice lay bent and broken on cobblestone pavement, his face leaking blood mixing with the rain, dripping down to form black swirls in the puddles.

Black. Black? It wasn't the darkness playing tricks. John had seen the red blood staining Vice's teeth. Vice's blood was black. John recalled. The late Rint's blood? Probably, but it had been too dark to tell.

John regarded this new discovery with mild interest that lasted all but two seconds. The half and half scent of man and animal was thicker.

Two to go.

John turned, and leaped straight up just as the beak-faced Nor lunged at him. John came down on Nor's back. Nor leaped, bucked, twisted and turned his head to snap at John. John, clinging with all four clawed limbs, snapped back with a hiss. Suddenly, Nor rose up on his hind legs, reached back, grabbing John by the collar of his shirt, and pulled, ripping John from the scaled back to flip him over onto his own back. John started to slide down the roof, so twisted around and dug into the tiles with his claws. He pulled, his strength propelling him forward, to go racing straight at Nor. Now it was Nor who leaped. John twisted around again for another run just when Nor landed. Nor sidestepped the next attack, but the long, whip-like whisker beneath John's eye snapped out when John jerked his head, slicing Nor across the jaw.

Sheppard grinned.

John thundered over the roof, but Nor kept close behind. No gimpy leg to slow him, and Nor wasn't hindered by bulk as well. Then John attempted to turn, and Nor took advantage. He leaped, colliding into John, and the two went tumbling, sliding, slashing, and gnashing teeth down the side of the roof. Following that, the stomach lurching, heart-stopping lack of gravity as the two plummeted.

Both landed on soft, wet ground that absorbed most of the impact. The two scrambled to their feet in a spray of water and mud. Spines were raised, both crouched and began circling with teeth bared.

Nor reacted first by snapping around in a lunge with jaws gaping. John met him the rest of the way, and the two grappled in the mad, tooth and claw frenzy of dogs fighting over the last scrap of meat. Spines, claws, and teeth raked scaly hide, and black blood coalesced with red outside the body. Both went for the throat, both always missing. They leaped, kicked, twisted, ducked, and jumped straight up. John, in a twist, lost his balance enough for Nor to throw him down, pinning John by the shoulders with both claws while at the same time opening wide to make a grab for the throat.

John's own clawed hand yanked his nine mil from his holster. He jammed it into Nor's mouth and fired one around after another until the weapon clicked signaling the clip as empty.

Nor, his mouth still gaping, fell dead to the side, blood oozing from the massive hole in the back of the head.

John shoved the gun back into the holster and rolled onto his feet.

One more.

John shook, both to rid himself of water, blood, and the fatigue trying to steal into his body. To track Savine, he would have to return to the courtyard and pick up her trail. John turned and went back up the wall, over the roof and into the quiet courtyard. He sniffed the air where Savine's scent still lingered enough for John to follow. That scent took him out of the courtyard, through the shattered door leading to it, and around the paddock.

John halted on the other side.

Savine's smell was pointing him to the woods. The path. Krissa and Bren.

With a sound both a hiss and a snarl, John pushed himself into a furious run that kicked up water and mud behind him. Around him, the rain diminished from sheets to heavy drops, and thunder was soft the next time it sounded. John's heart beat at the speed of his pounding feet - inhumanly fast had he been in his human frame. But he felt no exhaustion, no exertion on his heart's part. It was more as though the pulsating organ were pounding out of pure excitement, fueling him with something more potent than adrenaline. His lungs took in air with an ease not normally felt in a run, as though someone else were working the organs for John. The world was a blur of darkness and brown, the rain slapping his face and stinging his eyes.

Savine's scent increased in strength. John shifted course toward the path. He heard the trumpeting roar. And a scream?

 _Noooooo!_ It was a word in his head, but a shrieking roar from his throat. Then he saw, standing out against the darkness, Savine's bone-white hide bounding heavily over the path. Big as she was, she was still fast, but the viscous earth was making her falter and lurch. Ahead, John smelled animal and human, but as two separate entities. He could hear Krissa screaming, urging her vrat on.

John shifted again to go directly at Savine. The bigger creature was closing in on the two riders, and with each stretch of her solid arms she was nearing enough to take the tip off the tail of the two panicked vrats.

John leaped high as he could go and landed on Savine's back. The bull-ride resumed, with Savine sliding to a stop to rear up and reach back in order to tear John off. John was in constant motion over the broad back, biting, clawing, and trying to tear away as much flesh as he could. Then Savine grabbed hold of his leg. She yanked him off and threw him back first into the nearest tree. John landed in a heap, only to leap back onto his feet and at Savine.

If there was damage to his body – and he knew there was – he didn't feel it. Pain had no place in his mind. No time for it. It didn't exist.

Savine swiped at John. John jumped back, and the claws raked trench-deep gouges into the supple ground. John pulled his knife from his belt and jumped back onto Savine. He lifted his arm and plunged the knife into the spine. The knife sank deep, but the skin must have been thicker than he thought, because Savine's reaction was to grab him by the wrist and throw him again onto the path. She stalked toward him without taking the knife from herself.

John, growling, hunched his back and pushed off the ground in another jump high over Savine's head, grabbing the knife along the way. The second his feet met ground he spun on his heels and did another leap, this one low, sending him sliding across the ground between Savine's legs just as her hammer-like fist came flying down. John swiped out with the knife as he slid and it caught Savine's ankle, sinking deep with the force of the thrust, all the way to and into the bone. Still gripping the hilt, he jerked to a stop, and ripped the knife out.

Savine swung around, and her fist crashed into John's head, knocking him to his side. He scrabbled to his feet, and was up for less than a heartbeat when Savine's claws ripped into his shoulder. John was whipped around. He shrieked, briefly, then snarled and jerked around to claw her face. She jolted back to clutch the assaulted flesh. Her eyes ignited with fury, and her tongue snaked out to taste the obsidian black blood. She took a step forward, and John slunk back.

" _Kiiiiiiiiillllllll yyyyooooooouuuuu!"_ she rumbled, and lifted both arms to smash John into a pancake.

John grabbed his P-90 still hanging from his shoulder thanks to the spine on his shoulder blade. He brought it up to Savine's face and fired. Savine roared and stumbled back, grabbing her bloody face.

John waited for her to fall.

She didn't. She lowered her hands from her mangled visage, one eye leaking blood like it was oil.

John hissed. _Ah crap._ Wounded animals tended to be highly pissed off animals. And John knew Savine's level of anger had no limit. She was insane after all.

But when she moved forward, she stumbled. John backed away, panting, blood soaking into his clothes, running down his arm, and mingling with the puddles on the path.

John made a decision. Getting himself killed would be counterproductive to his goal. Savine would be slowed by her wounds. John could get ahead, guard Krissa and Bren, escort them through the shield and gate. Savine dead did not matter. His friends' safety mattered.

John's decision finalized, he turned and took off down the path. Savine roared behind him, and looking back he saw her ambling after him. The distance between them lengthened, so John looked ahead, increasing his speed.

He ran without breaking stride or even slowing, the rain dieing around him from heavy drops to drizzle, to mist, then to nothing. He ran into the gray of dawn with heavy fog wrapped around the trees and veiling the path. Scent guided him, then sound in the form of pounding vrat feet. To keep from frightening the riders, John moved into the trees, and ran through the misty forest. The running and riding went on into the day until the mad dash of the riders decreased into a trot.

John decided now was the time to emerge. He moved on ahead of the riders, to slow and step from the forest. He sat down on his haunches in the path. Both riders reined in their vrats with Bren bringing up his rifle. Krissa, however, reached out her hand and placed it on Bren's arm.

" No, wait! It's John! Look at the clothes."

Bren lowered the rifle. Krissa, round-eyed and breathless, stood in the stirrups to dismount. John rose to all fours with a hiss, bristling his spines. He shook his head, and pointed over his shoulder. They needed to keep going. Savine was slowed, not stopped. He turned and started moving at a walk to further enforce this point. He heard the jingle of reins, and the grunt of the vrats being urged forward.

" Mr. Sheppard?"

John looked back. Krissa's mouth moved without sound, hesitant to say anything or unsure of what to say.

She said what seemed to always come naturally to her. " Are you all right?"

John gave her a response in the form of a smile. Probably not the best way to be expressive with a jaw full of sharp teeth, but Krissa seemed to get the idea, because her body visibly relaxed.

Deeper on in the day, they stopped to let the vrats eat the leaves and lick moss from the trees. John sat further up the path to watch.

" As long as we feed them at least four times throughout the day," Krissa explained, " we can keep them going at a run. That should cut the time it takes to reach the town."

Far away, there came a howl. Krissa and Bren remounted and urged their mounts into a run – not tearing madly over the path, but fast as the situation warranted. John let them pass to take up guarding the rear. The day saw them in constant speeding motion, stopping for only five minutes to let the vrats feed. The howl, when it came, was always, blessedly, far away.

Day waned into night, and the night found them still running. Stops became ten minutes, because the party – say for John – was exhausted. Running became a dragging walk fueled by terror brought on by Savine's echoing howl. John could see the riders in the dark, both wet, both shivering, Krissa the worst. At one point, she nearly slid from the saddle, but John caught on the moment he saw her waver, and was there to catch her and place her back on the vrat. He kept by her then, much to the vrat's discomfort. Every time she nearly fell, John stood to steady her.

Slow progress. John didn't like it, but pushing would only make it worse, wear the vrats out, or send riders toppling from the saddles.

Then came the howl, closer, breaking the silence like a hammer through glass. The vrats didn't need to be urged. They bolted into a run, and Krissa's exhaustion fled her with a sharp gasp.

Morning, gray, wet, and still thick with fog that closed in around them like insubstantial walls moving as they moved. The howl had not sounded for hours, and Savine's scent was no where on the wind. The party slowed into a walk, stopping to let the vrats feed. Bren and Krissa fueled themselves with bits of dried meat and fruit. Krissa gave some to John, and he ate ravenously. Hunger, like pain, was a shadow at the back of his mind. There, but without affecting him in anyway except during the eating process.

John, after finishing, looked up into Krissa' pale face. Her frightened eyes were sunken, shadowed underneath – raccoon eyes.

He wanted to say something, to reassure her, to help her smile. But words wouldn't form coherently in his alien throat, and they had no time.

He did offer a smile, keeping his mouth sealed to hide the teeth. It seemed enough, because Krissa tried to smile back, and awkwardly patted him on the head with a shaking hand.

Her reassurance for him.

When the meal was done, the riders mounted, and heeled the mounts into a run with John padding behind. As the day aged, the fog stuck with them.

They had to be close to the end. Weren't they close? They should be.

John assumed as much when Krissa unstrapped the silver sil case from the saddle and opened it. She removed the device then proceeded – while in a trot – to program it. The device made no sound, but the panels on both sides lit up. She continued to hold the sil in her lap with one hand while the other was busy with the reins.

They were almost there, almost home.

The day was drifting away again, the darkness coming fast with the world already gray. Twilight came early to the woods.

The worn and wavering party dropped from a run to a walk akin to a crawl. A cool breeze picked up that thinned the fog into gauzy mist.

John halted, and pointed his snout into the air. The scent he caught – foul and combined - made him dash forward, hissing.

He shrieked." _Ruuuuuunnnnnnnn!"_

His cry did the trick, spooking the vrats and forcing them to run.

They didn't go far, maybe ten feet, when a massive white claw shot out of the lingering mist to catch Bren in the chest. The old man flew back and landed on the ground with a crack, chest ripped open from collar bone to floating rib.

Krissa screamed, but it was overcome by John's own shriek of rage. Honed thought became a pinprick of single intent – kill Savine. He tore over the path straight at the albino mutation and lunged straight for her throat with claws spread and mouth wide. He hit Savine in the chest to send her lurching back. He latched onto her throat, shaking his head like a dog trying to tear meat from the bone until it tore and hot blood squirted directly down his throat. Savine wrapped her massive hand around John's arm and ripped him from her torso. Teeth and claws split the flesh of her thick neck and shoulders – mosquito bites to her, nothing more, even with all the blood running in rivers down the grotesque body.

" John!"

He heard Krissa's voice just as Savine flung John away. He hit the ground rolling. He slid to a stop in time to see Savine lumbering toward Krissa, the vrat slipping in its addled haste to get away.

" _Witch!"_ John snarled. He ran at Savine, jumped to get over her head where he could stand between her and Krissa. But Savine was aware, and turned in time to bring her hand up and rake John down the chest right over the sternum. John landed, panting, only to be swiped aside with claws slicing through the scales and flesh over his ribs. He rolled to go sprawling on his stomach, and before he could rise felt the claws tear through his back.

Pain was starting to grab his attention. He was wearing out.

He tried to turn, to get back to his feet, when Savine's jaws clamped down on his ankle hard until John felt and heard the bone snap.

Uncomfortable, but nothing he couldn't handle. He snapped around like a striking snake and swiped Savine across the eye. She released John's leg to jerk back, then swiped him in return, again across the back.

Krissa kept sobbing out his name. He looked up to see Krissa dismounted, kneeling by the dead-still Bren. She was crying with tears running like rain down her pale face. John tried to crawl to her when Savine slammed her clawed foot into his shredded back and pinned him down.

 _No, no, no, not again, not again, nooooo!_

Not again. John wasn't helpless. He reached for the P-90 that had stuck with him through it all. He yanked it until the strap snapped, and he was able to move it to his other side and fire rounds into Savine's other ankle.

Savine let up on John to leap away from the bullets. John didn't waste time and scrambled over to Krissa, stopping between her and the blood-caked Savine. Savine snarled, looming on hind legs with claws spread, and John hissed.

" _Deeeaaaad!"_

" _Witch!"_

Then, a tentacle black as Savine's blood detached from the darkness to slide around Savine's pale waist. Savine stopped in mid-hiss to look down in absolute confusion at the darkness entwining around her.

The fire of anger vanished when she blinked, and complete, undeniable terror took its place. Her form shivered, and shrank, muscle diminishing, bones popping and snapping, face collapsing back to the flat and wrinkled visage of a frightened old woman. She grabbed her tattered clothes tight around a body the antithesis of what she had been seconds ago.

" M-master Diavante..." she gasped, trembling. " I – I was going to bring her back I promise I was I had no intentions of killing her against your will..."

John's sharpened sight saw Diavante through the growing darkness.

He was darkness, black as a starless space, shapeless like a massive clump of smoke, perpetually moving as though uncertain as to what to become.

Just like Bart had said.

" I wasn't going to kill her I swear, I was going to kill the man, he's taken the serum...!" Her words died as a gasp in her throat when the tentacle tightened.

" Please," she rasped, sobbing. " I won't kill her I swear."

" _Lie_." The voice was a rumble so low even John's sharp hearing barely heard it. The mass that was Diavante grew. The tentacle wrapped tighter. John saw the mass shift and solidify in no particular form – but there was a mouth. It looked like a mouth, wide and growing wider, with curved teeth. The mass stretched until the mouth was above Savine's head. The old woman sobbed, begged, louder and louder.

The mouth came down.

John turned and grabbed Krissa to him to hide the scene from her. Savine's scream could have rivaled her animal howl. Then it ended abruptly.

John felt Krissa shaking, heard her muffled sobs. Her hands clutched the remains of his shirt so tight he could smell the blood drawn out by her nails digging into her palm.

" Don't let him take me back," she whispered in a terror-strangled voice. " Please don't let him take me back."

It cut through the sharpened focus, and for a breath John's mind opened up enough for his heart to ache. He lifted an unsteady clawed hand to stroke her hair.

He felt Diavante behind him like a cold wind growing in strength. The cold brushed his head, down his back, and John shuddered, hissing.

" _John_."

Krissa gasped when the cold slid around John's flank to touch her. John saw the flickering wisp of darkness wrap around the silver case with the sil.

 _Hell no_.

John lowered his head to rest his jaw on Krissa's shoulder.

" _Ruuuunnnnn."_

He didn't give her time to respond. He grabbed the case and pushed her away, then backed away from Diavante's form with the case raised in one claw.

" _Run!"_ He shrieked. " _Run!"_

Krissa was just standing there until John cried out at her. She turned and bolted up the path to where the loyal vrat danced around nervously. Grabbing the reins, she brought the animal around and climbed into the saddle.

John didn't move until Krissa was riding off. Diavante made to go after her. John dropped the case, ripped it open, and removed the sil. Diavante paused, then immediately changed course toward John.

John took the Sil between his teeth, turned and bolted into the forest. He heard a sound, a moan, so deep it hurt John's ears. Diavante had no scent, only the aura of cold that was drifting away behind him. A glance told John the shadow mass was following, which was all that mattered now.

Lucky for John, Diavante wasn't that fast as a specter.

Then Diavante's form shrank into a silhouette of John's present body, like John's shadow taking a life of its own and not happy with John. John looked back ahead to weave through the trees, taking sharp and sudden turns that threw Diavante off.

Run, that was all he thought and all he knew. No destination, just run and get away. Keep Diavante away from Krissa. He didn't think it possible to go faster, but he did until the wind roared around him and his heart pounded fast enough to explode. His claws ripped soil and moss in sprays like a speed boat dispersing water. John couldn't say how deep Diavante's mimic of John's form went, if the cunning was the same or if Diavante went all animal like the others. John turned his focus to tactics that might loose the entity. He leaped and bounded off of trees trunks without breaking stride, scaled a few of the bigger to the branches in order to back track, changing direction without picking direction, spreading his scent all over the place.

He wasn't positive as to whether or not it was working, except that each glance showed him no sign of Diavante. So he kept it up.

The next tree he scaled, he saw him, and what John saw made him tilt his head to the side with a detached curiosity.

Diavante was slowing, his form wavering. It was like he was dissolving, melting into himself. Too many forms to take, too much genetic material in a single being, and not a stable enough mind to control it all.

That was John's assumption, and as far as he was concerned, it sounded about right. He took the advantage, leaping from the tree at another cheetah fast marathon through the heavy woods. He smiled around the sil in his mouth. Whatever destination cropped up before him, he would see it. He would make it.

John broke from the woods into a hilly meadow of short grass. His brain registered familiarity, processing it, conjuring images of the gate just over a few hills.

John staggered and fell, the sil popping out of his jaws. He pushed himself back up, grabbing the sil with his mouth, but fell again. He was flopping like a fish, rising, staggering, falling.

 _Why freakin' now! Freakin' irony!_

True enough. He felt himself diminish in body; scales and spines shrinking into him, sil dropping from his mouth when he lost the snout, horns and whiskers dissolving away.

 _Not now!_

But the energy, the strength, and the numbing chemical remained. John had little time. He grabbed the sil in human hands and raced over the hill as though just starting a run. Steam hadn't left him yet. Enough remained to fuel regular muscles and propel him forward. Cresting a hill, he saw the gate, not that far. Still running, John did one more glance for safety sake. He didn't have his P-90, his nine mil was empty, and the means to return to the creature form was depleted. He was screwed if Diavante showed up.

John practically collided with the DHD on finally reaching the gate. The first thing he did – get his memory into gear and enter the ID and activation codes for the sil. No time, and no way, to get the shield lowered. After that, he dialed with hands shaking so bad that even on the massive device he almost hit the wrong symbols.

The gate rushed to life. Clutching the sil to his chest, John broke into one last run and leaped into the gate. The ride made his brain scream. The worm hole deposited him into darkness and noise, so much noise, screaming klaxons in his head, his ears, shouts, panic, the stench of fear. It terrified him, and kept him running with bare feet slapping on cold metal. Up the stairs, stumbling, tripping, sliding on slick feet. He collided into walls only to push off from them. Where was he going? He was going somewhere, following the unseen path of hazy memory, and smell – his own scent growing stronger.

He collided with his door, slapped the panel, and lurched inside, falling to his knees so that he crawled the rest of the way on three limbs. He met resistance, a wall, so huddled into it, to wait, to think, to discover if Diavante had followed.

And what if he had? There was nothing John could do about it. Trembling, panting abnormally fast, he clutched the sil to his chest and waited, the walls and floor growing slick around him as he tried to stay upright but kept slipping.

The chemical was leaving him, and taking everything with it. His mind whirled and wavered until everything around him turned into a dream. Footsteps resounded in his skull. The sirens were long since over. He smelled scents, too many scents, vague in their familiarity. Crap how he wanted to sleep, but Diavante...

" John?"

His name, a singular word, and that voice - they cut through to him, louder than the blood rushing through his ears and the crashing of his heart, driven home by the gentle touch that followed. It all came together to still his mind, and his heart descended from its psychotic rapidity.

" Elizabeth."

John let himself crumple to the floor and curl up as the last drop of chemical slunk away. He had nothing left. He couldn't even hold onto the sil, so let it roll away. His eyes rolled up to faces he knew. A question was asked. He pointed to the gaping McKay. Then his stomach rebelled. So one hidden drop enough after all to raise him to his arms and puke Savine's blood. Now he was through, so fell, and let the good old void have its way and take him back.

TBC...


	22. Part Two: Hysterics of Fear

(After)

Elizabeth walked into the lab with the slow, casual pace of one on a stroll and meandering where ever her feet decided to take her. Happenstance wandering wasn't the case, the lab had been her goal all along. Her reasonings behind the destination, however, were not so precise. She had just needed another place to go besides the infirmary, before her feet wore a hole in the floor.

Plus it felt like ages since she had last talked to Rodney. Okay, maybe ages was pushing it. More like three days starting from when John had made his mad dash from the gate to his room to puke and pass out. Since that day, Rodney had been scarce except for briefings, and a man of few words during those briefings.

Again, pushing it. He still had plenty to say, but it was quick and done without the usual follow-up rants concerning this piece of crap technology or that incompetent scientist or soldier. He came, he spoke, then he was gone to get back to work on whatever it was he was working on.

All he had to say on John's mystery device was that he was still 'working on it'. Nobody had to mention it out loud – something was troubling the physicist. Kate summed up that trouble in one word – Sheppard. But since McKay was being purposefully ghost-like, and extra petulant since he wasn't very good at it, not even Kate could pin-point what, exactly, it was concerning the situation with the Lt. Colonel that was eating at Rodney.

The only two safe from Rodney's nuclear explosive temper were Weir and Ronon, and since Ronon's presence made Rodney clam up more than talk, it was all up to Elizabeth to get to the bottom of things.

" Damn it! Zelenka, I needed that running yesterday!"

Elizabeth did a sliding halt before Dr. Zelenka plowed into her.

" It was running yesterday! Oh! Hello Dr. Weir, I'm terribly sorry..." Radek said, catching Weir's arm when she stumbled.

" Quite all right, Dr. Zelenka." Her head was turned slightly to have Rodney – hunched at a table and typing furiously away – in her sights. Radek anticipated this, and scowled.

" He is like being penned up with a... a..." he snapped his fingers, " what is word? Ah! Demon. Devil. Anything straight from the pits of hell!" This he shouted, but Rodney didn't even look up.

Elizabeth gave Radek an understanding smile and a pat on the arm. " Not a good day, then."

" Never a good day. Worse day yet, though, I will admit." The Czech scientist raised both eyebrows. " I don't suppose..."

" I could keep him busy while you slip out for a break? No problem."

Radek sighed, slumped his shoulders, nodded a thanks, and rushed from the lab while Rodney was still preoccupied. Rodney turned just as the lab doors slid shut.

" Zelenka! Hey, where'd the hell he go?" Rodney's gaze landed on Elizabeth, and he immediately turned away back to his lap top.

Rodney's accusations of John acting like a child was the pot calling the kettle black. John's occasional childishness was more good-natured, fun loving bouts of immaturity. Rodney's – pouting, plain and simple.

" Dr. Weir," Rodney said by way of maintaining civility. " To what do I owe the pleasure?" His tone, however, was clipped, tight, and tense as his shoulders.

" Oh, nothing," Elizabeth replied. " Just thought I'd stop by, see how you were these days, what you were up to. I don't see you as much as usual."

The silence of the room was held back by the speeding clack of a keyboard under flying fingers. " I've been a little busy."

Elizabeth saw the dark, cylindrical device on the table, almost shoved back and half-concealed by scraps and Ancient artifacts. Weir moved over to the table. " Have you made any headway with John's device?" She lifted it from the clutter and looked it over. The casing was still coated in dry, smeared blood. Elizabeth nearly dropped it in her disgust, and couldn't set it down quickly enough.

John's blood. Too much of it.

That's when it dawned on her, and she turned sharply to stare incredulously at Rodney's back. " You haven't even looked at it... since that day... have you?"

The clacking stopped. " No." Then resumed.

" Why not? Because of the blood?"

" No, not because of the blood," he snapped.

" Then why? Rodney, we really need to know what this thing is, if it's dangerous. It could be a weapon, or something useful to us..."

" Ask John," Rodney impatiently spat.

Elizabeth gaped and looked at Rodney askance. " Rodney, he's been unconscious for three days. We don't know when he'll wake up and we need to know as soon as possible what it is. I mean, obviously it must be something important or John wouldn't have risked his life bringing it back."

Rodney whipped around on his stool to stare at Elizabeth with eyes blazing. " Ever think he might have had that thing shoved into his arms moments before he was shoved through the gate? Ever think that, maybe, if I tamper with it, some virus or poison gas might be released, killing us all? No offense to your imaginary ideal situation, Elizabeth, but we still don't know what happened to Sheppard, and for all we know so much crap happened to him that he had no idea what he was doing or even what he was holding when he came back. No, strike that – so much crap _did_ happen to him. Crap even the good witch doctor can't figure out. So excuse me for taking the side of caution and waiting until the only person who can give us any real insight wakes from his unnatural nap and starts spilling words rather than blood. Until then, like hell I'm going to touch that thing. Not until I know more."

With that said, he turned again, showing his back to Elizabeth as a visual end to the conversation.

Elizabeth would have been mad – probably should have been – but reading Rodney was like reading a book meant for a five-year old. The only time he was ever this rude – to everyone including Elizabeth – was when he was scared. So Weir wasn't going to fault him. Besides, he had a point. Elizabeth trusted John's stubborn resolve to the fault that the possibility of someone actually breaking that resolve never registered to her no matter the situation. She never considered extreme fatigue or mental tampering.

Anger and logic aside, Rodney was also sad. It was harder to see – the hardest of all, like trying to read through War and Peace – because it was hidden within the rant of fear and anger. Its manifestation was only revealed when one knew how to look, and what to look for. Or, more accurately, listen for. Rodney's harsh tone tended to waver when sadness was involved.

And sadness was a mutual emotion with most of Atlantis. Pity for John, because the man was a magnet for torture, and Beckett still couldn't explain what had been done to John's body that had the cells altered, except that it was similar to what had been done to the blood found all over (and in) John.

" I understand," Elizabeth said.

Rodney straightened, then turned to look at Elizabeth narrow-eyed. " You do?"

" Yes, I do. Worry is universal right now, Rodney, and if you feel it unsafe to study the device, then I won't push you... And... I'm sorry I did."

Rodney's next look was a guarded one. " Oh... okay." He made to turn back to his laptop.

" So how are you, Rodney?"

Rodney stopped, rolled his eyes, and returned to facing Elizabeth. " Is that a general question or something more along the lines of what Heightmeyer would ask?"

Elizabeth shrugged. " Just... a question. Like I said, I haven't seen much of you lately."

" And like I said, I've been a little busy. Look, I know what you're up too. So I've been keeping extra busy. So what? It's a technological _wonder_ of a city, so there's always going to be something for me to do or catch up on or whatever. I'm sorry if that means throwing the cold shoulder to everyone, but I work better when I'm not bothered – especially being bothered about my emotional state. I'm fine Elizabeth. Yes, maybe a little disturbed that the base commander who'd been gone for almost a month shows up with blood spewing from his mouth that isn't his and his genetic makeup mutilated. But other than that – I'm just peachy."

Rodney turned, conversation done.

Not by a long shot. Elizabeth folded her arms. " Beckett says you haven't been by to see John."

The clacking had resumed. " What's there to see? He's asleep."

" But he could wake up at any time. Awake or asleep, Beckett says the show of support would do John good."

Rodney snorted. " How? He's asleep."

Elizabeth drummed her fingers on her arm as irritation prickled. " Rodney..." She then narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. " You're not afraid of him, are you?"

Rodney's head snapped up and around. " What! Afraid? He's a vegetable. What the hell's so scary about that?"

" Not that," Elizabeth snapped. " Because of what was done to him. Because of the blood, the mutation. Because of everything. You're not the only one worried Rodney, or scared, but it's not a reason to avoid him."

Rodney was hesitant about turning away again, but eventually did. " I'm not avoiding him. I'd just rather see him when he's awake is all."

 _And see if he's still normal in the head._ Elizabeth knew Rodney wouldn't say it out loud. She knew he thought it, though, because, in all admittance, she carried a similar uncertainty. She was afraid for John – and, much as she despised it – of him. Of what he would be when he finally woke up.

John's iratus mutation hadn't been that long ago.

Elizabeth closed her eyes. She was being unfair, and she was really starting to hate herself for the repetitive trip down memory lane to that day. But fear left scars, and these were still fresh. There were nights when she still felt the fingers at her throat.

Elizabeth turned and hurried from the lab before the tears could group and pool. Ever since Beckett's announcement that what was found in the black blood was also in John's blood, it had left Elizabeth in a constant state of internal cringing. Caldwell had talked of keeping John in the brig out of precaution, Lorne keeping guards posted including Ronon, and Carson contemplating restraints.

 _The man isn't even awake yet!_ It wasn't fair, but had to be considered in retrospect of what almost happened, of what could have been.

Iratus mutation take two. Elizabeth shuddered. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to John.

SGASGASGASGASGA

Rodney's fingers hit the individual keys with hard enough strokes to break both the board and his fingers.

 _Afraid. What the hell kind of question is that? Of course I'm afraid! Who wouldn't be afraid? Who isn't afraid? Time to lock Lt. Colonel cannibal up before he eats us all..._

The clicking died, and Rodney closed his eyes with a frustrated groan.

 _Okay, unfair, very unfair. But come on! He's been altered and puked blood. That's scary, undeniably disturbing, and just... Freakin' wrong!_

He wouldn't admit to being afraid because no one else was admitting to it. And yet everyone was feeling it. One big mass act of denial.

Rodney opened his eyes, then leaned to plant his elbows on either side of the laptop and place his forehead in his hands. He also didn't want to admit it because he didn't want to be feeling this way. The all knowing Weir was right – well, not exactly. Rodney still held that his presence didn't make a difference if John was asleep. The desire to be there – to see how the Colonel was doing and to remind himself that the man who's friendship mattered a lot more to Rodney than he would let on, was indeed home, alive, and real – that was reason enough alone to go. More for his sake than for John's sake, but his masked concern for John made it anything but selfish.

Rodney hesitated, and avoided, visiting because he was sick of this crap. John back in body didn't mean back in mind, and if the form lying in that bed ended up not being John after all, Rodney didn't want to have to go through the motions of fury and demand that somebody help John, and hear the spiel of how it was tricky, hard, or impossible.

Better to stay a stoic than get backhanded by the cruelty of life when a bullet had to be put through John's brain...

Rodney closed his eyes again. Sometimes, he hated the pessimistic turns his brain liked to make, and hated himself for turning. It was a practical habit of his, but – crap – he'd sell his laptop to break himself of it.

Then there was the whole fact of this ordeal being his fault. He was the one who last saw John, and the one who didn't do a thing to stop John from taking that twenty minute stroll that turned into a month.

Beckett had been steamed about that one. He'd apologized later for laying the blame on Rodney, but the damage had been done, because in Rodney's mind Beckett had been right. Rodney had figured that out long before Beckett had said anything.

Would the Colonel be mad? Rodney liked to think he had the man pegged, but he didn't – most of the time. So he really couldn't say. Although, he had the sneaking suspicion that John would go out of his way to assure Rodney that it wasn't his fault. Wouldn't be the first time. Not a constant, but enough to have Rodney leaning toward that opinion. A positive – now that was a first.

The negative – John might not even be himself enough to remember even taking a walk. On waking, he'll flip, attack, and just kill...

Rodney gritted his teeth. _Shut up with that already!_

Not knowing was tearing his brain in two.

 _Wake up Colonel,_ Rodney thought with a sigh. _Let's just get it over with._

SGASGASGASGASGA

" Bloody, bloody, bloody, bloody hell," Carson mumbled. " Bloody, bloody hell. I don't get it."

He adjusted the focus on the microscope. The cells he was looking at – it wasn't as though they had been altered like he kept telling everyone, but more as though something had been added on. The only real altercation was with the black blood, and that hadn't been as saturated with the add-ons as Sheppard's cells were. In fact, a recent peak at the blood had shown fewer add-ons than yesterday.

He couldn't explain it, which was pissing him off, but it was a reason to be hopeful.

Either the add-ons were deteriorating being outside the body, or they eventually went on their own. Either way, if it was something added, and not fully integrated with the cells, it meant they could be taken away.

Beckett couldn't be certain. Genetics for him was like wormhole physics for Rodney – it was his domain, his specialty. But what Beckett was observing now was a little beyond his league. Maybe above and beyond.

It was weird, and making him nervous.

Carson lifted his eyes from the scope and rubbed them one-handed with thumb and fingers. He looked over his shoulder to the still, pale form in the bed, bandaged and wired to monitors and an I.V. line. The beep of the heart monitor was steady, the rise and fall of the chest the same. John's head was tilted to one side, away from Beckett. It looked uncomfortable.

Carson went over to the bed and gently turned John's head to the upward position.

The man's eyes were roving in REM sleep, and his throat moved in a slight swallow. The lesser scratches on his face, throat, and the visible places on his shoulders and chest made it seem as though he'd gotten into a fight with a thorny bush. Underneath the bandages that were near invisible against the white skin were the real marks of suffering. Carson put his hand on the cool skin of the forehead to check for a rise in temperature heralding infection.

None yet.

John inhaled a sharp, short breath, and let it out with a shudder. Carson was tempted to wake him, but needed to let John be the one to wake. The amount of exhaustion in the man had amazed Carson, because it should have killed John. So it was nothing unnatural that John had ended up sleeping through three days straight. If John needed four days, or five, then he would get four or five. Less would be better. Carson was anxious to get John back on solid food and aid the return of meat to the bones. John wasn't as bad off as he had been from his stay with the Cyladrans. But hospital beds, bandages, pale skin, and the extra visibility of bones was making John so blasted fragile looking.

It was the reason why Carson kept dismissing the consideration of putting John in restraints in case this cell alteration was a repeat of the iratus fiasco. Yes, safety was an issue, but it was a precaution, not a must, and truthfully Carson felt better in avoiding it. Picturing John waking up strapped to the bed and panicking made the whole concept piss Carson off. He would not restrain John so long as there wasn't a viable reason to. He would face the consequences, whatever they might be.

John could injure himself further if strapped down.

Carson put a hand on the sharp shoulder that wasn't injured. Far from being emaciated, but still thinner than the norm. Carson hated the struggle of getting John to amend that. The Colonel was always so focused on everything else except himself.

" You don't eat," Carson muttered. " I'm shoving the food down yer throat, lad. Sorry."

Carson turned to head back to the table and take another peek at those cells. The gate alarms sounded – an activation from off world.

" Just don't be callin' me," Carson said to himself. " Please for the love of everythin', let it just be more rain and not an ambush."

Carson suddenly wondered if he should have changed John's bandages. He glanced over his shoulder in consideration for it, and sent a petri dish sliding across the table in his hasty turn.

John was sitting upright, rigid, stiff, with hands gripping the rails so tight they shook. The expression on the pale face was pure, blind terror. His breath was coming fast, unsteady through a slack-jawed mouth, and he was trembling hard.

Carson hurried over to him. " John?" He put one hand on the Colonel's shoulder, the other on his bicep, both dripping sweat. " Colonel? Come on, lad, what is it? What's wrong?"

The monitor, heart rate, was fast, incomprehensibly fast. It was starting to increase Carson's own panic.

There was a voice announcing something that couldn't be heard over distance and being muffled by the door. John flinched with eyes darting around and head turning in all directions.

" What'd they say?" he rasped barely above a whisper.

" Say? John, you need to lay back down..."

" What'd they say!" John screamed, pushing away from Carson to scramble out of the bed. He hit the floor, hard, gasping in a pain-filled breath. He rolled onto his chest, and began crawling toward the infirmary doors. Carson ran over to him, taking him beneath both arms and hauling him to his feet. The moment John was up, he began sinking back toward the floor. He gripped the lapels of Beckett's lab coat in an attempt to stay standing.

" Colonel!" Becket grunted, trying to haul the weak body back toward the bed. John hindered it, still attempting to make it to the door.

" What did they say, what did they say, what did they say..." he said, over and over, his voice a freaked whimper, his blood-shot eyes wide enough for the eye lids to rip.

" What did who say?" Beckett grunted next. John kept repeating. Then, in a sudden surge of strength, John had his feet beneath him, and used his grip on the collar to pull himself up and be face to face with the doctor.

" Was it scheduled or unscheduled!"

Carson, his heart jackhammering out of control, shrank back from the wild, uncomprehending look of horror in John's eyes. Tears welled up along the edges of the eyelids, and one slid down the colorless face.

" What was it, Carson, please? Please tell me what it was?" His voice was lower in an attempt at calm, but cracked and hoarse.

Carson gulped, then slowly, carefully, raised a trembling hand to his ear to tap the radio there.

" B-Beckett to control room. Um, quick question. Was activation scheduled?"

The radio crackled and Beckett heard Weir's voice.

" Scheduled. It was Lorne's team returned on time. Why Dr. Beckett?"

" N-No reason."

" Are you all right, Dr. Beckett?"

" Fine! Fine, Dr. Weir. Beckett out."

Beckett did another swallow. " Scheduled, son. It was scheduled."

The terror, and the tension, left John like water being siphoned through a huge hose. The fleeting strength went with it, and John would have dropped to the floor if Carson hadn't kept his hold on him. John's head tipped onto Carson's shoulders, the frantic breathing becoming weary, deep-lung pants. But he was still shaking.

A nurse, having heard the commotion and standing off to the side in shock, rushed over to help Carson get John back into the bed.

" S... Sorry... doc," came John's weak voice into Carson's shoulder. " I'm... really... sorry."

Carson could have sworn the Colonel was verging on a sob. He and the nurse got John back sitting on the bed. Carson took the front, gently lowering John onto the pillow, while the nurse handled the legs. Carson pulled the blankets up to John's chest.

" It's all right son," Carson assured. Thoughts of restraints invaded Carson's thoughts, but he shoved them furiously aside. John's reaction had been anything but dangerous – except to John. He would have a nurse keep watch, that would work to protect John from himself just fine.

Carson reattached the wires of the monitor, then the needle of the I.V. after cleaning the the bleeding cut resulting from having the needle ripped out.

" Why did you need to know about the gate, John?" Beckett asked.

No response. John was back in dreamland.

TBC...


	23. Eyes Wide Open

Feeling was always first to return. Feeling of warmth and softness, accompanied by the sound of steady beeps going to the rhythm of his sleep lethargic heart. It was the beeping that had John releasing a shuddering breath of relief, and forcing his eyelids to pull apart against the sticky film holding them together. He blinked the haze and dryness away until the familiar shapes of the infirmary had him shuddering another sigh.

The joy of the familiar reality around him had his eyes burning with tears. _What the hell,_ he blinked and let them fall. This was a relief too big to hold back. It made his body numb, and the fingers of one hand dig into the sheet covering the mattress.

He was home.

Wanting to see more, John struggled to sit up but could only manage making it to his elbows, which was going to be a short-lived effort from the way his arms shook. He continued to blink, and looked around in that groggy way of one who'd woken up a little too soon. In fact, he would have dropped back and returned to his perpetual dream state, except there was a gnawing ache in his stomach that wouldn't let him.

He was hungry.

John's roving eyes landed on Carson's hunched form hovering about a table, peering into a microscope. When John's arms ached, he carefully lowered himself back onto the bed, eyes still fixed on Carson. John opened his mouth to call out, only to have the words get stuck in his desert-dry throat. An attempted swallow made his throat burn, issuing a cough that had Carson visibly tensing then bolting around in alarm.

" John?" Carson hurried over to the bed and immediately raised the head to have John upright enough to receive a cup of water. John took it but Carson held on to prevent John from downing it in a single swallow.

Water always had a funny taste thanks to morning breath. Carson kept the cup at an angle so that John was only able to take small sips.

" Easy does it, lad," Beckett said. The cup hadn't been that full, and even sips went fast. When done, Carson set the cup aside on the small tray, then leaned in toward John to study his face.

The proximity was unnerving. John involuntarily pushed back against the pillow to put in more space.

" How ya feelin', lad?" Carson asked

John cleared his moistened throat. " H-hungry," he rasped below a whisper. The infirmary was quiet enough for Carson to catch it. He nodded in understanding.

" Aye, no surprise there. Feedin' tubes never are fillin'. I'll have some soup brought up for ya when you're more awake. You feelin' any pain?"

John actually had to think about that for a moment. Relief had blocked out all other sensations, but now that relief had been reined in a bit, he became aware of an uncomfortable throb in his head, and soreness in just about every muscle he had.

" Nothing major," he hoarsely replied. " Sore."

Beckett smiled. " No surprises there, either. I would suspect your body to be a mite protestin' from being immobile for three days."

John blinked in confusion. " Th-three days?"

" Aye, more like three and a half. Nothin' to be concerned about. Complete exhaustion can do that to a body, and your body needed all the rest it could get. Glad to see you've finally had enough, though." Beckett took his stethoscope from around his neck and placed it in his ears. He pulled the blankets from John's chest and placed the listening end of the scope over his heart. " You've had us all a wee bit anxious." He moved the scope to John's left flank. " Breathe in. You had quite the wounds on you."

John, swallowing, took in as steady and deep a breath as he could. His eyes flicked to the table cluttered in microscopes, viles, petri dishes, syringes, and other laboratory paraphernalia.

Carson moved the scope over to John's right flank. " Breathe again. Folk have been waitin' a while to talk to ya."

 _I bet_. John couldn't look away from the table. One vile appeared to contain red blood, the other something black. He shuddered, and the heart monitor picked up speed.

Beckett's stethoscope slid back to John's heart. The good doctor's brow wrinkled in thoughtful concern.

" You all right, Colonel?"

John nodded stiffly and looked away. " Yeah, I'm fine. Just... hungry."

Carson plucked the scope from his ears and draped it back around his neck. " Right, soup it is then. I think Kaylee should be in the mess. I'll have her bring you up a bowl." He lightly patted John's shoulder before turning away to head back to the table. On the way he tapped the radio at his ear and relayed instructions to the nurse.

" I'll also need to be changin' the bandages," Carson said on reaching the table. He began gathering items back into containers or onto shelves, cleaning up. " I must say, you've been healin' quite well over the past three days. Showin' some quick improvement..."

John closed his eyes, but with no intentions of drifting back to sleep.

 _Crap, he's tip-toeing._ John opened his eyes. The monitor was still going fast, and his breathing was joining it. Suddenly the relief of being home became like a dream memory, and the infirmary was starting to feel smaller in area. He began twisting the edge of the blankets in the fingers of his un-casted hand.

Carson continued, still cleaning. " Both the cuts and the bones..."

" It's not dangerous!" John blurted.

Carson turned his head. " What?"

 _This is what animals in cages must feel like_. John's heart was pulsating faster, and a clammy sweat was filming all over his bare skin, absorbing every milligram of cold air and making him shiver. John took a deep, unsteady breath in a weak attempt to steady vibrating nerves.

" It's not dangerous." John looked down at his hand twisting and weaving the blanket through trembling fingers. " Whatever – you know – you, um... found – in me. It's not dangerous." He looked up and over at Carson, imploringly, even desperately, but like he cared. He needed Carson – everyone in the long run, but for now mostly Carson - to understand.

" I swear it's not dangerous. Not to me, not to you, not to anyone."

Carson finished the turn to regard John with a combination of wariness, concern, and full-out curiosity. " What, exactly, is _it_ , John? What is it I've been seein' in your blood for the past three days?"

John coughed, cleared his throat, and looked everywhere except at Beckett. He was scared to hell, the kind of fear he recalled feeling as a kid after having done something against the rules and being caught. Every fiber of John's being was absolutely certain that Carson was going to be furious after hearing what John would say. Then he would tell Weir, and Weir would join in the anger fest. Why? Because what John had done – to himself – was, had been, insane, stupid, dangerous, and something neither one would have ever condoned, not after what had happened after the wraith girl had bitten him. The only difference between then and now was that now, it was all about choice – the choice to take the serum, and the choice to take on the skin of something completely inhuman.

They would be angry, and underneath that they would be scared. Trust would be completely thrown out the window, never to come back. And, in the name of precaution, they would...

" Nothing dangerous, doc. It's nothing dangerous."

" Aye, you've said that."

John struggled into a more upright position, only to be leaning forward with hands gripping the rails for support. Becket hurried over to him and placed both hands on the Colonel's shoulders, applying pressure, urging the man to lay back down.

John grunted when individual flares of pain rippled from his chest, back, and arms. The pain forced him to relinquish to Beckett's guidance, and let himself be eased back against the bed.

" Easy lad, easy. It's all right. Bloody hell, if you say it's not dangerous then I'm very inclined to believe ya seein' as how you know more about it than me at the moment."

John looked nervously up into Beckett's face, and saw only worry.

Beckett squeezed John's shoulder. " You don't have to be afraid, lad. Not if it's no danger. I'm just curious to know what was done to ya."

John cringed. " Nothing was done to me. I – I did it to myself."

Carson's brow bunched into deeper worry lines. " What? What do ya mean? Son, I don't even know what it is that was done, remember?"

John squirmed. " It's a long story."

" Just give me the gist."

John inhaled slowly, and exhaled slowly. " In order to help out a friend, I – um... Okay, there was this scientist, a geneticist. She made this – serum – I guess you can call it. I mean that's what we've been calling it. It's... hard to explain. It let's you turn into things, become things..." John tilted his head back and rolled his eyes. " For crying out loud, it's a freakin' were-wolf potion! You take it in three parts and you... you... you turn into a damn monster! Your choice of form, any time, anywhere. No full moon necessary. It's all up to you. _That's_ what you're seeing in me, my blood – that serum. But I swear, doc, on my life, on Atlantis, it's not dangerous. It isn't an iratus mutation. In fact, it goes away after a couple of weeks. I won't be this way forever. You've gotta believe me."

Worry was gone, and uncertain shock took over. Carson just stared at John for seconds that felt more like five minutes each. John cringed again as flashes of his brief iratus mutation moments shot like lightening in and out of his skull; the things he had done, the people he had hurt – nearly killed. He couldn't fault anyone – Beckett - Weir especially – if security was called in, or the order issued to have John locked in the brig until this passed.

The prospect of it was what scared John. Normalcy was going to be hard pressed to come by, he knew that, but normalcy didn't even matter. There was going to be trust issues, and he didn't want that. He didn't want to see the shadow of iratus mutation memories visible on every face he saw. And he sure as hell didn't want to be locked up, caged, treated like an animal, like a monster, not when there was no reason for it.

" Change?" Carson said at last. " You can... change?"

" Yeah, my form. But by choice doc, by choice. And it's still me in the body. Nothing takes over, I promise, it's still me, you've gotta believe me..."

Carson's features softened into concern, then back into worry as it clearly and fully dawned on him what it was he was seeing in John's face, and hearing in the tight tone.

" Oh, bloody hell, John, I do believe you lad, I do. It's all right, no one's gonna do anythin' to ya..."

" Until you tell everyone else," John shot back, panting, eyes going to the infirmary door.

" We wouldn't, John. Not if there's no reason to. Look, tell me as much as ya can as best you can, and I'll have a talk with the others, explain it to them. They'll understand. You've no need to worry." Carson adjust the blankets back over John's chest as though the source for his shivering was from cold – which wasn't far from the truth. " Ya need to relax, John. This kind of stress won't do ya a lick of good."

John nodded, but stopping the body from trembling wasn't like flicking a switch. His fear wasn't exaggerated. There _would_ be trust issues, and potential problems that could launch him into critter mode, shattering that fragile trust and having everyone looking over their shoulders for _him._

Being locked up – he knew Elizabeth wouldn't jump straight to that. The fear of it, however, weighed on him the heaviest, but in a way that was different from the rest of his fears. This one was more raw, almost irrational, and at the forefront though he knew good and well it would be seen by the others only as a last resort. John chalked it up to the animal DNA cocktail that made up most of the serum. It was a universal fear after all; being cornered, trapped, vulnerable to predators.

Lucky for John, the fear wasn't quite up to the level of animal hysterics. Though he was pretty certain that if the words 'restraint', 'quarantine', or 'lock-up' were mentioned, he'd be making himself scarce in a heartbeat.

The infirmary doors slid open, and John – in his frazzled state of mind – jumped. Kaylee entered carrying a tray with a bowl of soup heavy with the scent of chicken. She gave John a quick smile on setting the tray on the small table.

" Glad to see you awake, Colonel," she said. She then looked at Beckett. " Need anything else, Dr. Beckett?"

Carson shook his head. " No, love. That'll be all for now. Could you give us a moment? I need to talk to the Colonel in private."

Kaylee, still all warm smiles, nodded once. " Sure." Then she headed back out.

Carson pushed the tray within John's reach, then turned and grabbed the nearest stool, yanking it forward and plopping down.

John's mouth filled with more saliva than he could manage, and some of it leaked from the corner of his mouth.

" Now then..." Carson began. John didn't hear the rest. He twisted to the side, snatched the spoon, and hunched over the bowl while shoveling broth into his mouth.

" Huh," Carson said. " Now that's a first."

SGASGASGASGA

Weir was practically running through the Atlantis corridors, negotiating the maze that had ingrained itself into her memory both conscious and subconscious. She moved fast in urgency and to avoid anyone she passed who was inclined to stop her for some mundane reason, and slow her arrival to the infirmary.

Even running, the halls seemed particularly long today. Time never did play favorites, and Beckett's news over the radio concerning John being awake had made time extra sluggish. Reaching the infirmary was taking unnaturally long.

Then she was there, halting to a stop rather than just slowing on seeing Becket _outside_ the infirmary, leaning with his back against the wall and arms folded like a man who'd stepped out for a smoke – except, of course, that Carson didn't smoke.

Elizabeth quickly composed herself by smoothing out her red shirt, then clasping her hands behind her back for a more dignified approach. That approach had Carson straightening, yet his arms remained across his chest, and his expression - to Elizabeth's concern – was unreadable. That usually wasn't the case with Carson. Normally, he was either worried, or relieved when it came to news on a patient.

Elizabeth gave Carson a quizzical look. " Dr. Beckett? Is everything all right? Why aren't you inside with John?"

" I wanted to speak with ya privately before you went in," Carson replied.

Elizabeth didn't know whether she should have felt irritated, worried, or nervous – though nervous seemed to be winning out. Beckett wasn't acting exactly guarded, but his posture spoke of hesitancy. He might have been unreadable in the face, yet the Scottish doctor was tense in body. Elizabeth gave him one of her both questioning and stern askance glances.

" About what? Is John all right?"

Carson nodded. " He's awake, and just downed a bowl of soup. It's about what I found in his blood."

Elizabeth lifted both eyebrows at that. " What?"

" It's not dangerous."

She lowered her brows into a furrow. " O – kay? I suppose that's good news. If it can be explained in terms I can understand, how did you figure it out?"

" John told me – over and over again."

Elizabeth hadn't seen that coming. " Oh. So... I take it he knows what it is."

" He'd better, he's the one who injected himself with _it_ after all."

Elizabeth's whole body flinched with a start of alarm. " What?"

Carson uncrossed his arms to place his hands on his hips, then sighed heavily. " From what he's been able to tell me as far as he can understand, it's a serum that alters the genetic structure enough for the body to take on another form. He calls it the were-wolf serum, I'm callin' it the changlin' serum. Made him an honest to goodness bleedin' shape-shifter of some kind. One form only shape-shiftin', but he can change his physical structure at will. That's what it is I've been seein' in the blood, that _serum_. But John was quite adamant that it was harmless, that he can change when he wants, and it's still him in the form he takes."

Had Elizabeth's jaw not been hooked to her face, it would have fallen to the floor. She'd heard Carson right – a shape-shifting serum – but her mind was being slow to process through the mire of shock coating it.

Two things finally pushed through that mire – not dangerous, and John.

" So... then... He's... He's all right? It's not harming him in any way?"

Carson shrugged. " Colonel Sheppard was quite insistent that it wasn't." He glanced about, passing his gaze all around the empty corridor. A techy walked by, and Carson waited until he passed before leaning in and speaking with a lowered voice. " But he's bleedin' terrified."

Elizabeth's eyes darted to and from the infirmary doors, as though she might have been able to see through them to John. " Of what?"

Carson continued to talk in an undertone. " You, me, the whole bloody lot of us. He's afraid of the reactions that he's certain'll occur, considerin' his close call with the iratus mutation and all. I see where he's comin' from, but to tell you the truth, I've never seen him this scared. I'm thinkin' the serum's got somethin' to do with it, given him instincts as well as heightened abilities, forcing extra caution to the point of near paranoia. Plus with all he's been through... He's bloody spooked. Now, I'm not Heightmeyer, but I can tell ya now you'd better handle all this with care, get it through people's heads that what's in John isn't a threat, and get it through John's head that we've no intention of doin' anythin' to him, lockin' him up or otherwise."

Elizabeth's eyes did another flicker to and from the door. She was getting anxious, impatient, to see John. She wouldn't hold it past Caldwell to react overly protective and suggest some sort of quarantine on John. But there was no way she was going to allow John to think that she would ever consider something along those lines.

But she was uneasy, uncertain. John's near mutation was behind her, not forgotten, and sometimes it had a way of slinking to the forefront of her thoughts.

" Can I see him?" she asked, looking back to the door.

" Aye. Just keep in mind what I said. I know you'll be needin' to tell the others, and they need to be aware."

Carson led the way into the infirmary, and Elizabeth followed. John was situated toward the back of the infirmary for more privacy. On approaching him, the first thing to jolt her was the fact that his eyes were open, and not even trying to attempt hiding any trepidation. Frightened, tired eyes surrounded by shadows, set in a thin, pale face, with a thin, pale body striped in gauze bandages – Elizabeth probably wouldn't have recognized him if it hadn't been for the dark, mussed hair. Granted he wasn't as bad as when he had returned from the Cyladrans, but there was still a kind of frailty about him, a lack of his usual strength that pricked hard at Elizabeth's heart and made her throat ache. He was staring off to the left with the scabbed fingers of his unbound hand fiddling with the topmost blanket.

 _A spooked John._ That could be dangerous, especially in light of his new found, particularly hazardous ability to change his form at will. Elizabeth couldn't believe she was thinking it, and despised herself for doing so. She focused on John as he was now, his physical state, which made him look, pretty much, absolutely harmless. It practically man-handled her unease right out the door, enabling her to plaster on a more genuine smile that conveyed her genuine relief and gladness to see John on the mend.

" Hey there," she said. John flinched and jerked his head around. For a moment that was less than a second, Elizabeth caught the tremulous wave of fear that passed through his gaze. It went fast to be followed by a deflation of the body as most of the tension left it. John smiled back, and a spark of himself glinted from his eyes.

" Hey back." He looked passed her. " Wow. Thought there'd be more than this. That's usually the song and dance."

Elizabeth, placing her hands on the bed rail, shrugged. " Carson thought it best to keep the visits to a minimum. Didn't want you overtaxed or anything."

John nodded. " I kind of guessed as much." His smile turned into a smirk. " Bet you thought I'd spend the whole week sleeping."

Weir, still smiling, narrowed her eyes. " I wouldn't put it passed you. To tell you the truth, I was kind of jealous. I wouldn't mind a week of sleep myself. How're you feeling?"

" Better, but that could just be the pain meds talking."

Small talk, pleasantries, skirting from the point as far away as possible, but Elizabeth didn't care. They would skirt the matter for as long as they wanted – or for as long as John wanted. Elizabeth was content just to see him smiling, and letting the small, brief bubble of normalcy surround them, even if it was imaginary.

Except that John wasn't relaxed. Some tension had left, not all, and its residue was lingering in John's lifted shoulders, in the lines of his face, and behind his eyes. It was being held back by Elizabeth's show of relaxation. If what Carson had said was true, and the serum enhanced instinct, then as long as Elizabeth was calm, then John would be calm.

Small talk couldn't go on forever, and the bubble popped when John looked away, down at his perpetual motion fingers, and cleared his throat.

" Um... I suppose... You have some questions..."

Elizabeth rested her hand on his shoulder. " Carson already explained. So no, not really."

John's smile faded, as did the spark. " There's the question concerning what happened."

" Well, that can wait. Whether or not you were okay was the immediate question, John. Everything else we can put aside until you're ready."

Elizabeth felt the muscles beneath the cool skin of the shoulder pull until they became solid as rock. John's whole body went rigid, while beside Elizabeth the heart monitor started climbing in rapidity.

Elizabeth's own heart was trying to match it speed for speed. Rising fear tried to have her snatch her hand away, but she kept it locked firmly in place.

 _A spooked Elizabeth makes a spooked John worse._ She gripped his shoulder enough to keep him aware of her presence. " John?"

John shook his head. " No. It can't wait. Too dangerous. Bring everyone in here. Caldwell, Lorne, my team. They need to know. Everyone needs to know..." John attempted sitting up, only to have the ever-present and quick acting Beckett aid Elizabeth in easing him back onto the pillow as John kept babbling about having everyone present.

Carson shook his head in that hard, no argument way of his. " Lad, you've barely woken up. You're still weak, drained, and I'll not have all my hard work go down the drain from you gettin' worked up by the million questions I'm pretty sure Rodney and Col. Caldwell are goin' to throw at you. Not to mention having so many in the room at once. Ya say what ya have to say to us. You know we're good listeners. We'll pass it on to the rest for ya."

John looked up at both Beckett and Weir, at first sheepishly, then nervously, followed by fearfully, and finally helplessly. It was like Elizabeth's heart was made of glass, and the expressions she saw were the rocks. Beckett's use of the word 'terrified' had been no understatement. Elizabeth moved her hand from the shoulder to the fidgeting hand, clasping it and stilling it from constant motion to small tremors.

" Go ahead, John," Elizabeth urged.

John seemed to shrink, and Elizabeth realized he was cringing. " You're going to be pissed," he said. Then Elizabeth witnessed a change in the man's demeanor that startled her. John shifted out of abashment, and his eyes hardened into steel. " But I did what I had to do..."

SGASGASGASGA

" He what!" McKay all but screamed. Elizabeth closed her eyes to gather her patience, then slid them back open. Standing with her arms folded before the conference table normally had a way of commanding absolute authority to the point that everyone knew better than to interrupt her. At the moment, however, she didn't feel all that imposing, mostly because she was still reeling, picking over the horror story John had told her not twenty minutes ago.

She had done the retelling to the best of her ability, and it felt inadequate.

" Rodney, please," Elizabeth flatly said. " He knew what he was doing..."

" At the time," McKay snapped. " Come on, Elizabeth, he told a complete stranger about Atlantis... _and mutated himself!_ "

" She was not a complete stranger to him," Teyla interjected. " He spent a month's time with her. She must have earned much trust from him if he told her that Atlantis was still safe."

" But he told with the intention of bringing her here," Caldwell countered. " But failed to bring her."

Weir flinched. 'Failed' sounded so harsh, and from what John had said – in Elizabeth's opinion – his goal had not failed, it was simply incomplete.

Caldwell continued. " If this girl survived, that makes her a security risk."

Weir nodded. " Which is exactly why I wish to send a team back to Sriot to look for this girl and bring her here. Hopefully, this Diavante John spoke of hasn't found her yet."

" I wouldn't hold out to that hope if I were you," Rodney said. " Not if this Diavante guy really is some mind-reading Ancient. The girl's probably already back with him, unless she went off world. In which case, I don't think we're going to be able to find her any time soon."

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at McKay. " John was insistent we try. And for matters of safety, I think we should."

 _And for matters of peace of mind_. John had gotten worked up despite Beckett's precautions. The apex of his distress was on telling Elizabeth about revealing Atlantis' status to the girl Krissa. The look on John's face had been another rock through the glass heart. The resolve had been firm, and his desperation that Krissa be found so potent it had brought John to tears.

Elizabeth hadn't let her own tears fall until she left the infirmary. John had literally slogged through hell trying to save this girl.

Elizabeth cleared her throat. " Let's back up here for a moment. I think the real issue at hand isn't so much the girl, but this Diavante. John said he was an Ancient, that he'd tampered with Ascension, and has an interest in Atlantis as well as knowledge that Atlantis still exists. Now, as best as I could figure from what John told me, Diavante has no real form."

" Like Anubis but not like him," Rodney said. " At least, that's what it sounds like. Anubis attempted Ascension and got stuck in an in between state. Apparently, so did this Diavante character."

Weir nodded. " Yes, but from the details John gave me, Diavante got himself into even more trouble. His attempt at regaining a solid form only ended up making him more unstable, even in mind. Then there's Diavante's supposed ability to pass through shields. John 'suspects', though he's not certain, that Diavante may, at some point, try to come to Atlantis. And, I won't hold this back, John was a little nervous when he said it."

 _Try terrified._ John was quite vehement that Diavante should, under no circumstances, be allowed into Atlantis. How they were supposed to stop something that could pass through shields, however, Elizabeth had no clue, and some of John's terror was starting to rub off on her.

" So what are we supposed to do about it?" Caldwell asked.

" I don't know," Weir admitted. " I was considering a visit to Chaya. I know she isn't able to help us, but she may give us some insight into Diavante. In the meantime, I'm going to have security around the gate increased. Rodney, you may want to look into that storage container that had held the energy creature. Maybe it could be used against Diavante in some way."

Rodney nodded. " I can try, though I don't think an ascended being, even a half mutilated one, is going to be easy to hold."

" I understand, but it's still worth a try."

Ronon, standing against the wall, raised his hand. " Question. About this whole Sheppard being able to turn into a creature..."

Elizabeth stifled a grimace. She had actually, foolishly, hoped that the topic could be surpassed, and that all focus would be glued to Diavante.

Beckett came to the rescue. " Nothin' to worry over. John knew what he was gettin' himself into on takin' the serum. He said the serum would be out of his system after a few weeks or so. Nothin' I'd worry about."

Caldwell, however, squinted warily. " You sure about that, Doctor Beckett? We've had some bad experiences concerning genetic experiments in the past."

Carson nodded. " Aye, I know, but this isn't like those past experiences. Colonel Sheppard controls the change, the change doesn't control him. He's fine."

Caldwell didn't seem satisfied, but said nothing further to Elizabeth's relief. She shot brief glances to the rest of John's team. Teyla seemed more at ease, Lorne excepting of what Beckett had to say, Rodney was busy looking at something on his laptop, and Ronon was indifferent as usual.

" Rodney," Elizabeth said. The physicist's head shot up.

" Yeah?"

" I think you can start looking into that device John brought back. He says he has the codes memorized, but he doesn't want you – under any circumstances – taking it apart."

Rodney snorted. " Oaky, then how the hell am I supposed to study it?"

" By seeing what it does, and wait for us to retrieve Krissa so that she can show you. John's words exactly."

" And what if we don't find her?"

Elizabeth had asked John the same thing, which had ended their conversation when he fell into a sorrowful silence.

" I don't know. You'd have to take it up with him." Which was probably not a good idea the way McKay liked to prod and badger. And Elizabeth had the feeling that if Krissa remained missing, John still wouldn't let Rodney dissect that device.

" That's all for now," Elizabeth said. " Lorne, I want you to head the team to Sriot. Ronon, go with them, they may need your tracking skills. Rodney, the device, both of them, start looking into them."

" Can we see Sheppard?" Ronon bluntly asked.

Beckett took this one. " Aye, but one or two at a time is best. He's still exhausted and wears out easily. In fact, right now, he's sleeping. But if you'll wait ten minutes, I should have him awake again so he can eat."

Ronon made a satisfied grunt, and Teyla beamed.

Everyone milled from the conference room, leaving only Beckett and Elizabeth.

Elizabeth quirked an eyebrow. " Well, that went better than I expected."

" You were expectin' somethin' else, lass?"

She shrugged. " More shock, maybe. I don't know. I really didn't know what to expect. Something bad, I suppose."

Beckett nodded solemnly. " Like the suggestion made that John be escorted by security? Or, worse, locked up?"

Elizabeth frowned. " Exactly." She then let out a weary breath and looked at the Scottish doctor. " What happened to John... He was purposefully leaving out the details."

" Aye, that he did. Obviously nothin' of importance. Probably situations best left for Kate's ears... Considerin' if she can get him to talk."

Elizabeth set her mouth in a straight line. " He did it before," she said.

Didn't mean he would again.

TBC...


	24. Arduous Art of Conversation

(The next day...)

Diavante rose up, growing and growing like black smoke roiling into itself, devouring itself, shifting and sliding over itself. A blackened hole bordered by a serrated edge of dagger teeth widened above Krissa's head. With her hands clasped before her and twilight breeze tugging at her amber cloak, she looked quite peacefully ready to accept her fate.

So finalized. She accepted without question.

Except tears were spilling from eyes too old for such a young face.

" It's all right, Mr. Sheppard." Her voice caught, choked. It wasn't all right. " It will be all right."

 _Help me. Please don't let him take me back!_

" It will be all right." Small now, growing smaller as the mouth slowly descended to cast its shadow over Krissa.

" It's all right."

 _Don't let him take me back!_

" All right..."

Sheppard, unable to move, to act, wept.

The mouth drew closer...

SGASGASGASGASGA

Rodney slapped the cylindrical device in his palm while pacing a hole before the infirmary doors.

 _Go in there, go in there, go in there... he doesn't bite..._

 _You sure?_

 _Yes I'm sure!_

 _You don't seem sure._

 _Beckett said it was safe!_

 _Maybe he was just being nice to Sheppard._

 _What! Get real. Beckett wouldn't hold back if Sheppard was a danger just to placate the man._

 _Then why don't you go on in and find out for yourself?_

 _I will!_

But he hadn't, and that was the fourth argument ending along the same lines he had since taking up his prowl before the doors. Rodney had no qualms in one on one conversations with himself. Contrary to popular belief, to talk and answer one's self was not a sign of insanity, but an act of a complicated and forever busy mind doing what it could to organize itself.

Although the present conversation was starting to make Rodney wonder. It was getting him no where.

Hating to admit it but having to, Rodney was nervous about seeing the Colonel in his present state – whatever it might be. And, despite Beckett's assurances, Rodney wasn't assured. Fine, so Sheppard had some control over the change. Did he have control over his own mind, his sanity? The only reason Sheppard had gone to Sriot was for a vacation because he'd been cracked in the head.

Super nova bust there. After hearing Sheppard's story, Rodney had every right to feel nervous about John's mentality and how stable it was.

And he hated himself for it. His logical mind never did know when to shut up. So Sheppard might be a little insane and can turn into a creature at will – it didn't mean he would, and it still wasn't a reason to avoid him. It was giving into cowardice, just when Rodney was starting to believe cowardice wasn't such a strong trait with him after all.

 _This is stupid! Just go in there!_

Rodney stopped pacing and looked down at the object now held in both hands, still flecked and smeared with dried blood. He really needed to clean it up.

 _Should never have let John go for a walk._

The doors slid open, causing Rodney to jump and jerk around to nearly bowl into Beckett.

" Oh, bugger it, lad! Do you always have to be in such a rush?"

Rodney indignantly stepped back. " Actually... I wasn't – in a rush, I mean. Is the Colonel awake?"

" No. But seein' as how you're not in a rush, which means you're not busy, you can be the one to stay by the bed when he does. I'd really rather not have him wakin' up alone. He won't admit it – probably since he doesn't realize it – but it makes him nervous if no one's about."

Before Rodney could form an excuse _not_ to stick around for baby-sitting duty, Carson grabbed his wrist and hauled him through the doors and to the back where Sheppard was stationed. The man was huddled on his right side under a pile of blankets, and Rodney would have liked to have said the look on his face was peaceful, except that it wasn't. His brows were scrunched, shadowing his already sunken, gray-shaded eyes, and the eyes themselves were moving rapidly beneath the lids.

" Is he all right?" Rodney asked when Beckett positioned him beside the bed. The Highland doc then dragged a stool over for Rodney.

" Aye. Just dreamin'. He gets like that."

Rodney pointed at John's flank. " I thought he had broken ribs. Doesn't having broken ribs make it kind of hard to be sleeping like that?"

Carson planted his hands on his hips as he stared down at John. A tremor ran through the overly slender comatose body, one that actually made the bed rails rattle.

" You'd think so. But Colonel Sheppard's body seems to be healing quite rapidly. The more serious breaks have fused and are more like cracks now, and I've already removed the stitches from the deeper gashes. Then there's this increased tolerance for pain he now has, coupled with pain meds. To tell you the truth, I doubt he can feel a thing. I say chalk it up as another quirk of the serum."

Rodney moved closer to the bed and leaned in for a better look at Sheppard's face. He screwed up his own face doubtfully.

" Healing? He looks sick. Are you sure he's not sick?"

" Quite, Rodney. He's still mendin' and his body still hasn't gotten its strength back. In fact that's why I need ya here so that I can run to the mess for a quick bite and to bring Sheppard some food. Kaylee and Katie are about if the Colonel needs any medical help, but I shouldn't be too long."

Rodney, still scrutinizing the Colonel's pale, wan, but tense features, nodded and waved absent-mindedly. " Yes, yes, go."

Carson clapped Rodney on the shoulder as a wordless thanks, then hurried from the infirmary. Rodney's uncertain perusal done, he slowly lowered himself onto the stool and turned his studying to the device. With the truth of what this device was out in the open, Rodney was getting antsy about wanting to test it. It was the oxymoron of what was really needed on Atlantis – shields. But thinking back to the Cyladrans, the device's merits had won him over to the thing. Rodney's arm – free of the cast – still twinged and flared if turned the wrong way or over taxed. But he recalled very little of his time in the cast. Hell, he didn't even really remember the pain. Once he, Teyla, and Ronon had been marched to the gate only to find Sheppard still missing, the pain had slunk off to a corner while Rodney focused all energy on ranting, raving, demanding a rescue be mounted, and searching for a way to disrupt this 'illusion shield' the Cys were so proud of to get John back.

Now, here he was, holding Sheppard's salvation in his hands long after the fact. But the fact was still fresh on his mind, as was the anger whenever it cared to spark. His fear of the device was gradually shifting toward obsession. If he could figure out how it worked, even make more, then incidents like the ones with the Cys would never repeat.

More than that, though logic and harsh realism always prevailed, Rodney allowed for the hope of this Krissa chick's retrieval, and the chance to meet her.

Rodney ran his thumb over the tiny console of the control panel, lightly enough not to accidentally press anything. Fascinating as the thing had become, he was still holding to cautious apprehension.

A rustle of cloth had Rodney's head snapping up to look at John. The Colonel was shifting in his sleep, curling tighter into himself as another tremor shook him. The heart monitor was going fast for a heart that was supposed to be slow under the effects of sleep. Beneath the beeping, almost inaudible, Rodney could have sworn he heard a moan, and sobbing.

" No..." A whispered plea. Rodney stood, setting the device on the now unoccupied stool, and moved in closer to Sheppard's shivering form.

" No, no, no, please no..."

Rodney placed his hand on the Colonel's arm buried under the blankets. " Colonel?"

" I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I tried, I tried, I tried... It's not okay, it's not, It's not okay... he ate her, oh gosh he ate her, don't look Krissa, don't... Don't..."

Rodney gulped. He didn't recall Weir mentioning anything about anyone getting eaten, but then her story had been the abridged version after all. He tried to gently shake John.

" Hey, Colonel, wake up."

The man was shaking hard, gasping, panting, still sobbing. " Run... run, run, run... don't look... run..."

The monitor was picking up speed, impossible speed. Rodney's own heart was doing a little increase of it's own. He shook harder.

" Colonel, come on, wake up. Nappy times over, Carson wants you awake. Come on..." His voice was starting to waver.

" Run... run... Oh gosh, no, run... _run..."_

John shot up in bed so fast the motion nearly knocked Rodney to the ground.

" _Ruuuuuuuuuuuuun!"_ John screamed, clawing at the blankets, the rails, trying to scramble in a mad dash attempt from the bed. Rodney wrapped his arms around the Colonel's chest and leaned forward with all his weight to push the Colonel back. Rodney expected a struggle, even to be shoved away. Instead, he could neither push John back against the bed, but neither did he have to hold him in place. The man had gone stick rigid with hands gripping the bed rails for dear life. Rodney could feel the man's heart slamming hard as a fist and fast as flapping bird wings. The Colonel's chest was practically pulsating with quick, heaving breaths.

Rodney reluctantly, hesitantly, slid his arms away from the colonel, but kept his hands resting on both the man's back and chest. He could feel, through the scrub shirt and the bandages, the bones of Sheppard's back, the ribs and backbone with a sickening clarity, and it made him wonder with irritation why he'd been so paranoid about the man in the first place. Irritation melted into pity, then pity to worry on looking up at at John's colorless face with its distant, 'no-one-is-home' but still terrified stare.

The two on duty nurses joined the now quiet fray, one nurse taking John's arm, the other checking the IV and monitor lines.

" What happened?" the nurse trying to ease Sheppard back into a prone position asked. Beside them, the monitor descended as the heart rate descended.

Rodney shrugged. " I – I'm not sure. Bad dream I think."

The nurse moved one hand to John's shoulder, pushing against it, but the man refused to budge. " Colonel Sheppard, you really need to lay back down..."

John shook his head, still staring. " No..." he pulled in a deep lungful of air, and on letting it out melted into a slump. " No, I don't want to. I'm good. I'm good..."

The second nurse raised the head of the bed.

" No, you need to. Come on, just lean back a little, it's all right."

John acquiesced, slowly easing back into the now upright pillow. Rodney slid his hand from the back, but kept his other on John's chest in case he attempted another bolt. He could feel John's heart, now out of its psychotic rampage, but still thudding. John closed his eyes, sighing, melting into the bed.

" Rodney? Is there a reason your hand is on me?" John opened one eye half-slit to glare at Rodney. Rodney returned the look with both eyes.

" Are you going to stay?"

John's eye slid back shut. " Rodney, right now, the prospect of moving makes me drowsy. So yes."

Rodney removed his hand. The two nurses exchanged grins, and the one checking the lines patted John on the shoulder.

" Do you need anything Colonel? Water, something for pain?"

John nodded. " Water."

The nurse poured a glass from the plastic piture on the table by the bed and handed it to John. " Anything else?"

John shook his head no, so the two nurses left. John took small sips from the plastic cup, his tongue flickering over his lips.

" I'm hungry," he stated. Rodney couldn't help it, the words unnerved him.

" Carson just went to get you food. He should be back soon." _He'd better be back soon_.

John lowered his gaze in an act of disappointment. " Oh." Then he looked up at Rodney with rekindled hope. " Got anything on you?"

Somehow, that sounded worse, being followed by 'I'm hungry' and all.

" Um, no."

" Not even a power bar?"

McKay fumbled through his pockets until a Power bar was produced, but stalled on handing it over. " Won't Beckett be pissed? I mean I thought the whole point to the gradual reintroduction to food was so that your body doesn't go into shock. Power bars are nutrient city, so you might as well be asking me for an MRE."

John perked at this. " That actually sounds better. Know one with a turkey sandwich?"

Rodney rolled his eyes and stuffed the bar back into his pocket, then stepped away when John reached out to try and take it.

" Oh no you don't! I will not be taken down with you when Carson gets all over your skinny butt for snacking. Just wait. The man's bringing you dinner. You could at least have the decency to have some patience and wait to see what he brings you."

" It's not a matter of what he brings, Rodney, it's a matter of being hungry." John lifted a shaking hand to illustrate. " Make that starving. It freakin' hurts Rodney."

McKay was ready to accuse John of exaggerating, except the desperate look on the Colonel's face as his focus honed on the pocket holding the power bar was painfully familiar to Rodney, recalling a mad grab for nothing more than a cup of broth that couldn't fill a mouse's stomach.

Once again, here came the pity. " Sorry, Colonel. The witch doctor's orders. You can hold out a little longer, can't you?" Just in case, Rodney took another step back should John decide to lunge for the food. It really was an uncomfortable sight – John pale and thin, hands shaking, practically begging for food. Rodney's refusal to hand over one measly power bar was making him feel lower than pond scum.

Time for a massive change in subject. He twisted around and snatched up the device, giving it another once over.

" So um..." he held it out to John. " How's it work?"

John looked up at the device, and something passed over his face, something Rodney could have sworn was a combination of pain and sorrow. He didn't take it, and in fact looked away to the wall across from him.

" There are four codes. One for identification," he spoke mechanically like an automated voice relaying instructions, " one to activate, one to deactivate, and one to counter."

" Counter?"

" Another sil?"

" What's a sil?"

John turned his gaze up at Rodney. " What you're holding. It's called a sil. You want to know the codes?"

" That would be nice, as long as none of them set this thing to explode."

John narrowed his eyes. " It's not a bomb, McKay. It collapses shields for a time so that anything can get through. Wasn't my sudden appearance example enough to prove what it can do?"

Rodney looked uncomfortably down at the sil. " I wasn't exactly present for that part. Although you did have Elizabeth a little freaked."

John quirked an eyebrow nervously. " A little? You sure?"

" Actually you scared the hell out of everyone. So what are the codes?"

" Give me a piece of paper and I'll write them down."

Rodney looked at John in surprise. " You still remember them?"

" Remembered a MENSA question, didn't I? Yeah I remember. I always remember when it's important."

" Oh yeah? When's my birthday?"

John's eyes went heavy-lidded. " Is that important?"

Rodney rolled his own eyes. " Fine, whatever." He then dug into his pockets until a pen and scrap of paper was produce. " Here, write away."

John took them into his unsteady hand. He rested the paper against his casted arm, and held it down as he wrote. " They're in order this time."

" Huh?"

John shook his head. " Never mind. Here." He handed both paper and pen back. Rodney took both, looking the codes over. He then shoved both back into a pocket.

" Okay then." Rodney turned to go.

" Hey, where're you going?"

Rodney turned back, readying a snappish retort about getting on the ball and studying the device per Elizabeth's orders. His jaw snapped shut in stunned silence at the look of hurt on John's face. Guilt hit fast and hard, and Rodney didn't even know why.

" I – uh – need to get to work on this thing."

" Can't it wait?"

" Why?"

John shrugged. " I wanna talk. Catch up. I've been gone for... a long time, so I'm kind of behind. And I've never really got to just talk with anyone. I'm either asleep or they're busy. And, of course, it's not like I can get out and about whenever I want. Anything interesting happen while I was, um... gone?"

With a slow sigh, Rodney set himself back on the stool, holding the sil in his lap. " Interesting... interesting... well, Kavanaugh nearly blew us all to hell when he almost 'and I use that term loosely' overloaded a generator for one of his projects. Ronon attempted to learn how to cook – bad idea of course. Never try anything he makes, by the way. A _nything._ That includes grilled cheese sandwiches. I came up with a formula that increased the efficiency of the generator the Sriots gave us. Good for hiding life signs unless a wraith decides to land. We're thinking about following the Sriot way and building some safety bunkers underground or in the nearest mountain and use the generators for that. Um... Someone got married, don't know who. Someone had a baby so they won't be coming back to Atlantis..."

" Anything off world?"

Rodney really should have seen it coming. " Oh... uh... um... No, not really."

John gave Rodney one of his penetrating, no-nonsense, no argument, and no crap stares. The one he normally gave Rodney when the physicist was taking too long toying with some off-world, Ancient device with bad warning vibes vibrating the air.

" Why don't I believe that?"

Rodney straightened and feigned annoyance. " Um, because you think just because your off-world missions end bad everyone else's has to as well?" Rodney winced when John's brow knit. He sagged his shoulders in defeat. " All right, you wanna know? There were no off-world missions. After your little vanishing act, they were all canceled. The only off-worlding was to Sriot to look for you, and by the Athosians so they could do some trading. Other than that, all the teams were grounded. The suspicion was that the Cys were involved. Gate travel wasn't going to resume until..." Rodney was really starting to hate this. It made no sense to him why he always ended up playing devil's advocate when people liked to point out how much of an anti-people person he was.

He sucked at this stuff, he didn't deny it. If anything, he tried to push the fact in order to keep out of such situations as this.

" Until what?" John prodded.

" Until... after your funeral."

John's reaction was to stare blankly at McKay. " Funeral?"

" Yes, Colonel, funeral. You were gone for almost a month, we searched for that long with nothing to show for it, and the SGC was pushing Elizabeth for accepting what we all thought was the inevitable – that you were gone, and that a replacement commander needed to be sent in as soon as possible. In fact, your timed arrival couldn't have been more impeccable. You really know how to make an entrance, you know that? You actually had the SGC flipping over backwards because you came back _just_ when they were ready to hand over Atlantis' military keys to Caldwell. In fact, they still are if..."

John's eyes darted down at the sil. " I prove mentally unfit to run Atlantis' defense," he finished, his voice subdued rather than bitter, as though he accepted the possibility that his command could be relinquished. It made Rodney squirm.

" You wouldn't... let them, would you? I mean, not easily right? No offense to the guy who outranks you, but I honestly don't think he has a clue how to run this place..."

John smiled, and it seemed real enough. " Is that your way of saying you missed me?"

McKay snorted. " Don't even look that deep into it. I have a higher tolerance for you than Caldwell, that's all."

John let out a quiet, breathy laugh. " Yeah, I missed you too Rodney."

Rodney scowled. Yet another reason he hated this. Heartfelt could be rather nauseating at times. " I bet. Sure you had time to miss me, or any of us for that matter?"

" What do you mean?"

" Oh come on, you know what I mean. What you told Weir was a veritable fairy-tale, complete with monsters and damsels in distress. Krissa wasn't a blond, was she? Totally complete the picture if she was..."

John's smile – and all humor – was gone in a flash, leaving him frowning and staring at Rodney as though the physicist had grown another head, and it was cussing at John. Gradually, like clouds gathering to block the sky, John's face darkened.

" She's a twelve year old girl, Rodney."

Now it was Rodney's turn to go slack-jawed.

 _Open mouth, insert foot, kick own teeth out._ " Oh," he stuttered. " Oh – uh, Elizabeth didn't say... mention... an age"

" Didn't say or you weren't listening? Seriously, get your head out of the gutter, McKay. Someone says 'girl' or 'woman' and you automatically think _player_...! Crap, you really think I'm like that? Oh, wait, yes you do! And you know what, I'm sick of it!"

Rodney flinched. " Jeez, calm down. I'm sorry, all right? I just... I'm sorry. Yes, I heard girl, Krissa, no age mentioned and... I thought... You know this is why I'm not good with people! And this is why I don't like talking. I'm sorry that I tend to jump to conclusions and I know it isn't fair, but it happens, and sometimes I don't have any control over it. Really, if you have to know, it is a jealousy thing since you're better at talking to women and I suck at it, that's all it is, and it tends to get out of hand. You have a Kirk complex and I don't... Colonel?"

It was apparent from the way John was staring down at his hands that he had stopped listening some time ago. Rodney tensed.

" Sheppard? What..."

" She saved my life first," John said.

Rodney scooted himself and the stool closer. " What? Who?"

" Krissa. She saved my life first."

McKay scrunched his brow in confusion. " Okay."

Silence fell between them, with John just staring, his face without expression, his gaze turned inward. Rodney waited with as much patience as he could gather, but had to push down on his own knee to keep his leg from twitching.

John had never seemed so un-Kirk like as he did at that very moment. Loss and defeat flickered in and out of his eyes like lightning as he contemplated something that was obviously beyond him, and tearing him down. Then he blinked.

" I... Don't know... if I saved hers."

John looked at McKay, all questioning, eyes actually asking _Rodney_ for the answer he so desperately wanted.

Was Krissa okay?

With all the crap John had been through, Rodney wished like mad that he could answer in the affirmative, and say that Krissa had been saved. Deep down, Rodney knew that if he could just say ' yes, John, you did', then the old John, the one that vanished the day the Cys had taken them, would be able to find his way back, and everything would go back to the way it was. Rodney had no proof this would prove true, only a gut feeling stronger than any gut feeling he'd ever had. So strong he had to look away as frustration began shredding his insides.

" Weir sent a team to go look for her. She doesn't make any promises, but if they find her, they'll bring her back here." Rodney then cleared his throat loudly and forced himself to look back at John. The answer seemed to have satisfied the desperation enough for it not to be so palpable, and Rodney relaxed.

" You're not going Bartleby on me, are you?"

John shook his head. " You still on that analogy?"

" Actually, that one's kind of grown on me. Seriously, though, when you went for that walk, it wasn't because... because you were running away, right? Not that I thought that! Well, okay, sometimes it popped into my head, but only because a few – I won't say who – considered it. You were pretty down about the whole Mathers incident and... some people worried that you..."

" Finally flipped?" John finished. Again, no flat or bitter tone, but neither subdued or accepting. If anything, he sounded amused. In fact, the corner of his mouth was turned up in a small smile.

Rodney winced all the same. " Yeah, flipped out, went AWOL."

John lifted a single finger. " First off, whatever's going on up here," he pointed to his own head, " will never get in the way of my responsibility to this city and the people here. I would never let that happen. Second of all, the walk had just been a walk. The whole being kidnapped thing by a psychotic old lady who was more the big bad wolf than granny down the road was not part of the agenda. What happened to me was a fluke. But... I don't regret it. At least not yet."

Then John smiled, wistfully. " It wasn't all that bad – some of it. There were actually a few good times. You really need to meet Krissa, Rodney. You'd like her. You'd get along great."

Rodney smiled back. " Believe it or not, I'm actually looking forward to it."

The door whispered open and Beckett entered balancing a tray in both hands. " 'Bout time you awoke, Colonel. Got your lunch right here."

It was a bowl of soup, again, but this time with toast, some juice, and a bowl of fruit. Beckett moved around Rodney to set the tray on the table. The moment he did, John lunged, nearly spilling from the bed in his haste to get to the food. Rodney almost slipped from the stool in shock.

" Wow. And I thought Ronon was the only one capable of packing it in so fast."

If John heard, it wasn't like he was going to waste precious eating moments to respond.

TBC...


	25. Safety's Sake

(Next day...)

John was trying to eat with dignity, he really was. Shoveling food into his mouth like some back-woods wild man was awarding him undisguised looks of disdain from the nurses, and concerned looks from Carson.

But, crap, he was just so hungry.

Explanations weren't a must, he blamed it on the serum, and Beckett blamed it on both serum and extreme exhaustion. Either way, he was back on solid food much to John's relief, and even given extra helpings of whatever was available in the mess. In between meals were snacks of power bars, because Carson was eager for John to regain a little more weight.

Tough luck there. Perhaps it was a mite premature, but both men found it disconcerting that John hadn't gained a single pound. It had Carson cussing out the serum in both English and Gaelic, placing it as the soul perpetrator of having sucked John's body dry of every available nutrient, and slowing the process of regaining those nutrients.

John sawed fast through the small stack of pancakes, keeping bites small so they could be easily shoved into his mouth. He had to force himself to chew, and half the time didn't wait around for his teeth to do their job.

" Slow down," Carson's voice called from somewhere in the infirmary. " Unless you're keen on chokin'."

John shot a a nasty glare in the direction of the voice, licking syrup from his lips. Carson, as always to John's annoyance, was right. He took a swig of milk from a glass, then decreased his rate of sawing and stuffing.

Alarms sounded muffled from the other side of the infirmary door, and John paused half-way through another saw. Incoming wormhole, he could make out that much. Scheduled or unscheduled he couldn't, and that made him shiver.

His throat muscles constricted, and he looked in the direction where Carson's voice had carried from. The desire to know had his mouth hanging open, but the embarrassment of seeming like a paranoid kept the question trapped in his head. He recalled, like a dream with the reality of sensation he could sometimes still feel, panic and pleading to know about an incoming wormhole.

" It's just Major Lorne's team reporting in from Sriot. Nothin' more," came Carson's disembodied voice. The body to that voice stepped into view.

" And no – no news of Krissa."

Embarrassment twinged, making John cringe ever so slightly, but Carson's awareness and consideration enabled him to force a small smile.

" Thanks."

Carson nodded once. " No problem lad."

John turned back to his meal and finished sawing. No news was no news, though John's brain tried to slink toward it being bad news. Adhering to the positive as best he could, John placated his worries with the thought that Krissa was in hiding, or on another world, maybe with her cousin. He had to think that, but hated the similarity it had with the act of self preservation. Mental self preservation, since worry was already taking out his nerves with tiny pick-axes.

But it really wasn't self-preservation, just a way to hold up his patience until the time he was fit enough to walk through the gate and join the search for Krissa. He would find her, even if he had to take the sil and waltz back through Diavante's shield, armed to the teeth with P-90s and crap loads of back up.

Diavante. If he came through the gate, would they know? Could he turn invisible, follow a team while wearing the smallest form he could hold?

The heart monitor was betraying him again when it picked up speed. Carson insisted on keeping the stupid thing glued to John's chest so the nurses could know when to rush in and wake him from another nightmare. Sheppard would have ripped them off, but that would have sent the machine into a shrieking tizzy, and the infirmary staff rushing to him in a stampede of panic. John closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and calmed himself with the reminder that they had a device that detected alien presences – thanks to Chaya. Diavante's mis-matched DNA would have that thing doing waltzes around the gate room.

When the pancakes were gone, John lifted the plate and licked it clean. He turned his ravenous attention to the bowl of fruit, forcing himself to use a fork rather than his fingers. It was alien fruit mixed with cantaloupe, apple slices, and grapes. When he finished, he licked the small Styrofoam bowl clean. He did it to the plate with the toast, then drank the small bowl of oatmeal, forgoing the spoon, and licking that clean as well. The milk – well, a tongue could only go so far – so when the glass was empty he kept it held upside down over his mouth until the drops stopped coming.

And he was still hungry. It was starting to piss him off. He lifted the tray, searching for drops or spatters.

 _Lick that, and you'll look like a fre-eak,_ his mind admonished in a sing-song voice. Darned if it wasn't right. Frustration had John setting aside utensils,tilting the tray on its side, and leaning forward to clamp his teeth on the rim. There might as well have been a hole in his stomach for all the good these larger meals were doing. In fact, it felt like there was a hole, a black hole, sending the food off into some other dimension, never giving his digestive tract a chance to break it down. Although, even he had to admit he was no longer feeling the led-heavy weariness that had coated his bones the other day.

His mind turned from his continual need for food and whipped around back to Diavante. Even if that detector Chaya had brought to life caught Diavante's scent, that didn't mean they would be able to find the mutant entity. Shields might not be all that Diavante could disrupt. He could also have a knack for smacking down life signs detectors.

John bit down harder on the tray until it creaked out in protest.

What if Diavantes was here now? The heart monitor was back to betraying him, and just when Carson walked in.

" You all right son?" Carson asked, eyes darting to the monitor, and fingers pressing uncomfortably against John's neck for a better assessment through the pulse. John didn't reply. He couldn't, not until he got it through his own head that everything was fine, and that Diavante's presence couldn't be that easily concealed no matter the screw-up Ancient's skills.

Carson twisted his mouth on picking up the licked-clean plate. " Never thought I'd live to see the day when John Sheppard did what he was told. Bugger, John, you'd think with all you've eaten your stomach would be a lot less demandin'. You still hungry?"

Carson attempted to take the tray from John. John's grip on the tray with his hands was loose. His teeth were another matter.

" John, let go son." Carson tugged, but John's mouth remained firmly clamped. For some odd, even immature reason, he found a small sense of satisfaction in biting the now empty tray, as though the piece of hard plastic were responsible for the now lack of any food. Carson went from tugging to pulling.

" John, I said let go. I'll get ya somethin' else but you need to..." The tray slipped free of John's teeth, and Carson jerked back, nearly stumbling. " Let go." He lifted the tray, and his face went slightly pasty at the deep grooves left by John's teeth. John snapped from his troubled reverie on seeing his handy work, and balked.

" Sorry," he said, his voice small, ashamed, and he winced at that.

Carson kept staring at the teeth marks. " Um... don't – don't worry about it." He then quickly gathered the plate and utensils, piling them onto the tray. John looked away to the right.

 _Lookin' like a freak John. Making people nervous. Bad, bad move._ He shrank back in abashment. Then he felt the small, warm weight of a hand on his shoulder through the scrub shirt, and turned to look back up at Carson.

The alarm was gone, replaced by a softer look. " Ya still hungry lad? I'll scrounge ya up somethin' else."

John shook his head. " Naw. Screw it, doc. If my guts want to be a jerk, I can be a jerk too. I should be satisfied with what I already ate."

Carson patted his shoulder. " Don't think that way. I'll bring ya somethin'. There's bound to be a limit to this, and we need to find it. Besides, if your body's processing nutrients at a quick rate without consequence, who are we to pass up the opportunity of getting you back to quicker health. I say go with it."

John smiled. " Thanks doc."

" _Jooooohhhhnnnn. I'm here John. I'm here."_

Cold snaked down John's back along his spine, soaking through the skin, through the bones, groping. A near immobile body allowed movement enough for him to arch, and his voice to whimper in childish terror.

John snapped his eyes open, and snapped his body up. The monitor going at marathon run speed, but not to the point that had a nurse at John's bedside. His hand went straight to his twitching back beneath the scrub, where the memory of ice-fingers lingered, though the skin was warm. He rubbed his back where he could reach while steadying his panting breaths. His eyes were all over the dusky infirmary that vibrated with the low, near inaudible hum of machines both human and Ancient made. John was alone, for the most part, not counting anyone who might be in Carson's office or puttering around out of sight.

John was shaking hard enough to rattle the bed rails, and his heart refused to descend. His dreams were far too vivid for assurances. Diavante could be here, probably was here, and the prospect was scaring the hell out of him. The sil, he couldn't get the sil, whatever he wanted it for. John couldn't let Diavante use it against Atlantis, if his intentions were along such lines.

John reached out with an unsteady hand to the monitor, and flicked it off. He pulled the nodes from his chest, then the I.V. needle from his hand.

John couldn't let Diavante get the sil.

John moved with cat-like stealth from the bed to the floor, slipping from it into a crouch. The transition came smooth as water flowing over John's body, scales replacing skin, bones shifting, stretching, elongating, and spines, spikes, and whiskers sliding from him, ripping through the bandages and scrub shirt. The cast remained on his wrist, and the wrap on his ankle. They didn't hinder his movements, but the healing bones did. Pain was still a distant whisper at the back of his mind. Instinct, however, pushed caution, so when John moved sinuously as a serpent across the floor, his previous grace was lacking thanks to the pronounced limp in his arm and leg.

Atlantis still knew him. He thought the infirmary doors open, and slipped out, curving as best he could with cracked ribs to keep along the walls and the shadows there. Only his claws clacked on the metal floors. He made his way through the darkened corridors toward the lab where the scents of people and machines hit him before he even saw the doors. He heard no sounds, but kept crouched close to the wall when he thought the doors open. The lights were off, but the darkness was patched with gray when John's eyes absorbed every iota of light to be scrounged. He moved with a quiet hiss to the back of the lab and the table there, then rose up on hind legs and carefully sifted through the various items until he came to the one he was looking for.

He took the sil into his mouth, and slipped back out of the lab.

Diavante would not get the sil.

But John needed a place to hide, lay low, keep safe. Someplace Diavante wouldn't be able to find. Yet John was not in a position to say what Diavante could and could not find. Still, trying was better than nothing. John sniffed the air and took note of the stronger human scents and their location. Still keeping to the wall, he let the smells guide him away from those on patrol or simply taking a midnight walk.

John knew where he needed to go. The only place he could go.

SGASGASGASGA

Weir was in a full-tilt run to the infirmary. The doors barely opened for her all the way on entering to find Dr. Beckett standing next to an empty bed with rumpled sheets and blankets. He was talking hurriedly with the nurse, who was pale-faced and gearing toward a panic attack.

" What's going on?" Elizabeth demanded, looking from the bed to the now turned doctor. Behind him, the nurse was ringing her hands and trying to hold back tears. Beckett just looked exasperated.

" Well, if you haven't already guessed, John's missin'," Carson quickly explained. " Katie called me in. Said she heard the heart monitor stop, came out to check the Colonel, and found him gone."

" I don't know how he did it," Katie rapidly explained. " He shouldn't have been able to get by me. I was right where I could see him! And I didn't hesitate, I moved when the monitor stopped."

Elizabeth's heart faltered. " What?" She then shook her head. " Never mind. We need to find him." She touched the radio at her ear, and called in people one at a time. When she finished, she gave Carson a questioning look.

" Do you know any reason why he would leave?"

Carson's face went slack. " Lass, I know a hundred reasons, most centered around the fact that he never likes the infirmary much, the rest stemmin' from all the hell he's been through. Too much to take your pick from."

Elizabeth let out a sharp breath. " Well, at least we know he hasn't gone through the gate. Security needs to be warned..." She squinted, then widened her eyes. " You don't think he's... you know... not _quite_ himself?" Her eyes flicked to the nurse.

Carson caught on quick. " Oh bloody hell I hope not. Some might not hesitate to shoot."

People began coming in, Lorne first, followed by Ronon, Teyla, Rodney, and several soldiers.

" What's going on?" Rodney asked right off, his clothes rumpled as though he'd been sleeping in them. His eyes went straight to the empty bed. " Where's Sheppard?"

" That's why I called you all here," Weir said. " To find Colonel Sheppard." She looked at each attending person piercingly. " But you only. No one else. The rest of Atlantis needs to stay in their quarters or where ever they are at until we find him. And..." she swallowed. " Under no circumstances – no matter what you see – are you to shoot _anything_. That goes for stunning."

Lorne and Teyla nodded in understanding, Ronon grunted, McKay paled, and the rest of the soldiers just looked confused.

Lorne clipped his P-90 to his vest. " You heard Dr. Weir," he told the other men. " Keep 'em stowed."

The rest of the gathered soldiers followed suit, still perplexed. He then divided them up – one to go with Rodney, another Teyla, Ronon, Dr. Beckett, Weir, and himself. Once that was established, they left the infirmary and split up, with Weir heading to the control room. From there she sent a city wide announcement for everyone to remained where they were, made assurances that everything was fine and that this was nothing more than a drill, and headed back out to join the search.

" Ma'am," the young soldier accompanying her began timidly. " May I ask... um... why the precaution?"

" Saftey's sake," Weir said. " The Colonel's safety. He's not well..."

 _And possibly not human at the moment._ How the hell does one explain that without rubbing a few nerves raw?

The radio at her ear crackled. " Elizabeth? Rodney. The sil's gone."

" Rodney, what?"

" I went to the lab to grab some life signs detectors, and when I looked at the table I didn't see the sil."

 _Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap._ " Okay, Rodney relax. Chances are Colonel Sheppard has it."

" And chances are he doesn't. Elizabeth, maybe we need to get more people in on this search."

" No! I will not risk John's safety. Besides, we would know if Diavante were here."

" We don't know anything about this Diavante guy! He might have technology – or a self-inflicted ability – to get past every sensor we have."

Weir, moving faster through the halls, sighed. " Rodney, one problem at a time. Find John first, make sure he's all right." Her feet were taking her straight to John's quarters. One upon a time, she would have fought herself to keep from opening the doors. Opening them now, seeing them dark and empty, sent a electrified jolt of icy shock through her. It took her a moment to regain her composure and walk in, but it was a slow, halting walk as she made her way around the bed. The now blood-free corner was as empty as the rest of the room. She hurried out, and felt relief in having the room at her back.

Her mind raced as fast as her feet through the list of places John could possibly be. Too many places, really, especially if John were trying to hide. Or maybe he wasn't trying to hide. Maybe he was biding his time, waiting for the right moment to gate off the planet. Or, maybe Diavante was here and John... What, was taken? Killed? Running? Fighting?

Elizabeth hated possibilities. But something deep inside her was whispering that John was just hiding, and that she needed to keep that in consideration above everything else. It wasn't just a feeling, it was logic. John's spooked state of mind dictated so. The man had been feeling unsafe, worried, therefore he would want to be someplace safe.

Which was... which was what? Where? Balcony, bedroom, some hidden, unexplored part of the city? Elizabeth tapped her radio, contacting Teyla and asking her. She didn't know. Neither did Ronon, or Rodney.

" Maybe he took off with a puddle jumper," Rodney suggested.

" We would have known." Elizabeth looked into empty rooms, even storage spaces. In her frustration, and as a long shot, she contacted Heightmeyer. She filled her in as quickly as she could and on as much as she could.

" Did you try the jumper bay?" was her immediate response.

" I'm there now." Ronon. " We're checking the jumpers. Haven't found him yet."

" Trust me, I think he's there. You just need to know where to look."

Elizabeth changed direction, heading for the jumper bay. She was starting to get the idea of where Kate was going with this. Elizabeth knew John enough as the type of man to never lose his cool, or his mind, no matter how terrified he was. And if instinct driven, of course he would go to a place of safety, whatever his reasons for sneaking out of the infirmary.

She came into the bay to see Ronon and a marine checking each of the jumpers. Ronon looked over at her, then pointed at where a jumper appeared to be missing.

" I think McKay might be right."

Elizabeth looked at the empty spot, and almost laughed. It was John's favorite jumper, _his_ jumper, that was missing. She hurried over to the empty space. What was it her grandmother had once said? A very religious woman, but not the fanatic kind. Anything she ever had to say always rang wise rather than berating.

 _You can't rely on your senses alone. Too easily deceived._ And then they played a game in which Elizabeth was blindfolded, and made to smell an orange while eating an apple, except that the apple had tasted like an orange.

She'd also said that gut feelings should be given more credit. _God doesn't scream at you. He tends to be more quiet about it._

Elizabeth slowed, and reached out with both hands, moving deliberately until her palms hit something cool and solid. Again, laughter tried to erupt from her throat. Instead, she just smiled.

" He's here." She slapped the invisible puddle jumper. Ronon and the two soldiers came up beside her and also felt. Elizabeth called in Rodney and Carson, and as she waited, felt along the jumper, slapping its sides, then its window when she came to it, calling John's name.

" Colonel Sheppard, are you in there?" No reply. The rest of the team and the soldiers accompanying them arrived.

" Rodney, can you get the jumper doors open?" Elizabeth asked. Rodney approached to where the jumper was supposed to be.

" Elizabeth, I can't even see where to plug anything in." He reached out until his hand pressed against the unseen surface. He moved around it until he came to where the doors were supposed to be. " If he sealed it, then we're just going to have to wait until he comes out." He continued to feel along the back, then began banging on it. " Hey, Colonel! You in there? Come on, open up. It's just us."

He continued to bang, slap, then stumbled back when there came a clunk and a whine. A door opened up in thin air as the bay of the jumper descended. Elizabeth moved around the jumper to stand beside a gaping Rodney.

" Did you...?" she asked. Rodney clapped his jaw shut.

" Probably hit the panel," he said. " Or something."

The interior was dark, even when Rodney and Carson along with Elizabeth, stepped inside. The lights of the bay were enough to show them the form huddled on the right side jumper bench. Rodney went to the controls and got the lights up and the jumper decloaked. Both Carson and Elizabeth went to the bench where John was curled up in a deep sleep with the sil clutched to his chest. The look on his face was pure peace, total relaxation.

" Well," Carson said, kneeling by John and putting his fingers to the Colonel's neck to check his pulse. " Haven't seen that in a while." John didn't stir at the pressure on his throat. He was absolutely comatose. However, when Rodney came over and tried to remove the sil from John's grasp, it wouldn't budge.

" What the hell!" Rodney snapped – which sounded more like a whine. He looked at Elizabeth in nervous uncertainty. " He won't let go."

Carson, never without his stethoscope when on Atlantis, had it on his ears as he listened to John's heart and breathing. " So, let him have it. This is the best sleep he's been under in days." Carson stood and began rummaging through the compartments of the jumper until he came to the emergency blankets. He pulled two out, and began shaking them open.

Elizabeth arched her eyebrow at that. " You're letting him stay?"

" Aye, what the bloody hell. If it means him gettin' a good nights sleep, so be it then. I'll stay with him."

Rodney looked at Elizabeth imploringly. " What about the sil?"

Elizabeth shrugged. " You're not working on it right now. I'm sure John'll hand it back over once he's awake. Besides, in the long run, it's his device for the time being."

Beckett had a blanket ready to drape over John only to pause and lower it. He knelt back beside the Colonel, placing a hand on his side, and pulling the scrub. " Huh, wonder how that happened?"

The back of the scrub was full of holes, as were the bandages beneath. Then he swiftly adjusted the scrub back into place. " You know what? Doesn't matter." He rose, and draped the blankets over John.

It wasn't lost on any of them, those tears in the cloth. They didn't have to speculate, or even say it, and out of consideration for John, bring it to anyone else's attention. Not like they needed to anyways. Although Rodney had gone slightly pale.

Personally, Elizabeth didn't care. She lowered herself into sitting at the head of John's 'bed'.

" You stayin' too, lass?" Carson asked, setting himself down on the bench across from John.

" For a little bit," Elizabeth replied.

" Why?" Rodney asked.

Elizabeth didn't reply. It wasn't something she could explain in a way that Rodney would understand. There was a part of her that still wasn't accustomed to having John back, another that needed to make sure he didn't vanish on her – again, and another that simply felt like keeping him company even if he wasn't awake. She was in no ways upset that John had pulled another vanishing act, mostly because she was in complete understanding as to why he did it. Everyone needed a security blanket from time to time. The jumper was John's. And Elizabeth had to admit, with its cloaking and shield capabilities, she was feeling a lot more at ease than she usually did in this little ship.

Rodney, still waiting for an answer, finally rolled his eyes. " Whatever. The three of you are nuts, you know that? I'm going back to bed."

" Tell the others to do the same," Elizabeth said. Rodney headed out. When he was gone, Carson went to the controls to close the bay doors and reestablish the cloak. He pulled out two more emergency blankets and handed one to Elizabeth, wrapping the other around himself.

" You want the bench?" he asked. She shook her head.

" No, I won't be staying long." It ended up being a lie when she fell asleep ten minutes later.

TBC...


	26. Under the Skin

John opened his eyes to a dark head resting on the edge of the bench. He blinked away the film blurring his vision to focus on that head and allow familiarity to take hold and add in a face. But not wanting to waste the time, he simply lifted his own head and leaned enough to the side to see the face. He squinted.

" Dr. Weir?" His voice was a harsh whisper, but his proximity had him heard. Elizabeth's eyes twitched, then fluttered rapidly open. She stretched, yawned, turned her head, and jerked away on seeing John's face.

" John! Colonel!" She chuckled ruefully." I am so sorry. Kind of startled me there."

John blinked like a brain-numbed owl at her. In fact, numb was exactly how he felt on doing a quick perusal of his surroundings. He was all ready with the question of why he was here and how he arrived, but memories he had assumed to be dreams sharpened in clarity, and the recollection made his heart pound. Then he looked back at Elizabeth and narrowed his eyes.

" Okay, I know why I'm here. Why are you here?"

Elizabeth wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees and shrugged. " Just... keeping you company..." she trailed off, and her features went slack. Her wrist shot up and her wide-eyes shot down at her watch.

" Oh my gosh! I – I must have fallen asleep. I wasn't going to stay that long." She sighed and dropped her arm, tilting her head back against the jumper wall. " Too late now." She rolled her head toward John. " How are you feeling?"

John sighed. " Can't complain."

That earned a smirk from Elizabeth. " John, since when has that ever been an answer? Seriously, how are you feeling?" She rolled her head to the right, but the bench was empty of one Scottish physician. " I think inquiring medical minds will want to know."

" I feel fine."

She looked back at John with full-blown skepticism oozing from her. " Come on, John. That's like crying wolf..."

John shook his head. " No, Elizabeth, really, I feel great. Okay, maybe a little groggy, but that could be because I'm starved. A little food, some moving around, I should be fine. Last night was the best sleep I had in days. No dreams. Nada, nadia, zip, _and_ zilch. Just good old fashioned R and R. Trust me this time, I really mean it."

Elizabeth's eyes moved down to the device clutched to John's chest, and she gestured at it. " Would this uninterrupted R and R have anything to do with that?"

John craned his neck down, and the details of last night became more tangible. " I'd be lying if I said no." He shivered, and pried one hand from the sil to pull the blanket up to his shoulders, hiding the device. He didn't recall getting a blanket.

" Can I see it?" she asked.

Another pry, this one requiring more effort, pulling the sil away from him and sliding it from under the blanket to hand to Elizabeth. She took it gingerly, and looked it over in the same manner.

" Did you change, John?"

John squirmed deeper beneath the blanket with the heart-thudding impression of being a kid under interrogation on whether or not he'd been the one to push younger brother into the mud. " Um... Y – you know, I don't really recall..."

A smile twitched at the corner of Elizabeth's lips. " It's all right if you did, John." She held up the sil. " I understand."

John huffed out a sharp breath, and his next words were bitterly heavy. " Understand? What's there to understand? I was being paranoid." He reached out and took the sil from Weir. " I don't even know what Diavante wanted with this. I mean for all I know he was going to give it to his staff so he didn't have to shut his shield down all the time."

Elizabeth nodded ponderously. " Maybe. Or, he might have sold it to the Genii, or the Cyladrans. Or it could have fallen into the hands of the wraith, and fail safes or not, they could have found a way to duplicate it. John, whatever the situation, your fears were legit. They still are if what you've been told about this Diavante character is true. Don't feel bad for being cautious."

John slipped his arm holding the sil back beneath the covers.

" You know," Elizabeth began, " maybe when Rodney isn't working on that, you should keep hold of it. Keeping it close might help you sleep better."

John moved his head in a sluggish nod, and pressed the sil back to his chest. He didn't like admitting it, even to himself, but he did get a sense of peace having the device in his own hands.

Both became quiet for a moment, John because sleep residue was being stubborn about leaving, and Weir because she seemed engrossed in studying John's face in that contemplative way of hers. John looked away at the crawling sensation he got from it, and pitied amoebas under microscopes. Weir apparently took notice when her head twitched and her eyes blinked from their trance.

" I'm sorry John, I didn't mean to... um... stare. I was just – just wondering... out of curiosity, nothing else... what it's like – when you change?"

Innocent enough, but John's skin kept trying to crawl from him. " It's... hard."

" Hard?"

" To explain. I'm still me."

Weir nodded. " I think you've said that on more than one occasion. If you're uncomfortable talking about it..."

John shook his head with more vigor. " No. It shouldn't be hard to talk about. It's just tricky to explain."

Elizabeth's features shifted from curiosity to concern. " It doesn't hurt, does it? When you change?"

" Oh hell no. I'm aware of it, but I don't really feel it, you know what I mean?"

She shook her head. John sighed heavily.

" Um... okay, it's – I guess you could say – automatic, like moving your arm but without looking at it. You know its happening and can see it happening in your head, you just don't see it for yourself until after its over. Then, my mind, it like..." he removed one hand from under the blanket to gesture with spread fingers at his skull, " sharpens. Really, really sharpens. I don't really feel anything, emotions I mean. Well, I do, just not as strongly... although anger had a pretty good hold. Crap this is hard. Like I _keep_ saying, it's still me. I still feel, but it's never overwhelming. Emotions don't control me, only the goal, whatever the goal is. My goal on Sriot was to protect Krissa, so I did what I had to in order to. My mind worked faster, I planned faster, and my actions didn't register until I was out of that body. But it never got to a point where I didn't know what I was doing. I never went – were-wolf or anything, going ballistic, ripping everything to pieces, crap like that. It was like..." he snapped his finger, " piloting a jumper. All automatic."

Elizabeth smiled. " Sounds interesting."

John lifted his shoulder. " I guess." He wanted to say it was cool, because in many ways it was, except for the claws scraping the base of his skull where the form's presence lay curled and dormant. He said automatic, in control, but it wasn't all that smooth. The presence, no matter its easy integration into his being, was still a stranger generating bodily discomfort.

The change, and the form, were unnatural. His body knew it, his mind knew it, so there could never be true acceptance. Nature wasn't that open-armed, and as _cool_ as the shape-change was, it still made him nervous.

" You don't seemed thrilled," Weir said next.

" Should I be? It's just a serum. It'll be gone in a few weeks anyways."

 _Good riddance_ , both his mind and body hissed.

" No sense in getting attached to it," he finished.

Beckett had impeccable timing. He arrived at the precise moment Elizabeth was about to comment or question, and the arrival of the doctor ended the conversation there. He had his bag in one hand, and knelt beside the bench.

" Mornin' Colonel," he said. " How'd you sleep?"

John smiled and lifted his head. " Like I was sedated."

" Feel capable of sittin' up?"

" Possibly." John gradually pushed himself into sitting with Weir rising to take his arm and keep him steady. The world went merry-go-round on him for no more than two heartbeats before settling down in its rightful order. " That was funky."

" Dizzy?"

" A little. But then I've got the appetite to eat an elephant... not that I would. Nice animals, elephants..."

Grinning, Carson breezed through his doctorly routine. He lifted John's shirt enough to listen to his heart and lungs, checked his temperature, then blinded him with the penlight. He removed the shredded bandages, and chased off the last sleep remnants with cold fingers prodding and pushing sore ribs.

" Jeez, not so hard doc!"

" They hurt?"

" When you do that, yeah."

" How bad? Scale of one to ten?"

" An annoying four. It's not like yesterday."

Beckett eyed him skeptically. John just rolled his eyes.

" Come on, doc, I'm not just saying it to get out of the infirmary. Speed healing, remember?"

Beckett pursed his lips but kept prodding. " Aye, they don't feel broken. And the bruising's gone down a bit. How about your ankle?"

" I got here, didn't I?" To push the point home, John struggled to his feet and moved passed Elizabeth and Beckett to limp around.

" See? Not so bad." It really wasn't. Not a joy to walk on, but neither did it have his leg buckling from agony.

Beckett folded his arms and exhaled through his teeth. " I suppose. Crutches though, just to play it safe. You let me help you to the infirmary, You get X-rayed, I get you crutches, then you're free to go."

John tilted his head back and whispered a thank-you into the air. He let Carson grip his arm and guide him from the puddle jumper with Elizabeth following behind. He wasn't off the cargo-door ramp when he turned back to her in sudden thought.

" Any word on Krissa yet?"

Elizabeth stopped and crossed her arms in front of her chest, shaking her head soberly. " No, not yet. But we haven't been searching that long."

John nodded. " I know. Just... needed to ask."

SGASGASGASGA

Back in uniform, relatively, if one called BDUs and a long sleeved shirt a uniform. The quick healing had turned the deep gashes into angry red scabs, and the lesser cuts nearly invisible. It was the scabs he was more self conscious about. His tint less skin had them standing out like zebra stripes. On the secondary plus side, the cast on his arm had been sliced off and replaced by bandages. Tender, but tolerable enough for him to use his fingers to a lesser extent, such as holding a pen or fork. He still suffered a sling.

John's first destination on leaving his quarters after dressing was to hobble to the mess. Crutches ended up being a single crutch, since improvement in the ankle was more pronounced on the X-ray and Beckett wasn't confident enough about the damaged arm to let John use it too much. The crutch clacked down the corridors to the mess, awarding Sheppard a few casual glances of minor curiosity.

Minor, yes, but irritating after a time. A month shouldn't have seemed such a long time the way months tended to fly by. For John, in hindsight, that month was more like a year. The faces of strangers were always flashing his way, giving him grins of familiarity that weren't supposed to exist. Of course everyone knew him, if not by face, then by name, and if not by name than by the obvious injuries (nothing stayed quiet in Atlantis for long). The gimping trek to the mess hall had John longing for a known face. Rodney had been too casual about the people coming and going. If John didn't know any better, had his team not made their frequent visits, John would have sworn the entire city had been replaced with new personell.

The faces had him casting his eyes to the floor and keeping them there, except when he happened upon some young marine who insisted on saluting him. Couldn't look feeble for the soldiers. Not that John cared what people thought, but morale was hell to maintain even on good days. Respect even worse.

On entering the mess, and joining the back of the line there, John realized that he had a problem. Crutch in one hand, and the other bound and tender, he needed to strategize.

 _Lose the crutch._ Obviously, but if Beckett caught him, 'pissed' wouldn't be sufficient to describe the reaction.

Except that Carson wasn't here, and John's mouth was salivating to the point of flooding over.

Of course the more logical route to go would be to ask someone for help.

 _Dare I cross that line?_ He considered it. _Which way to go, which way to go?_ Stubborn pride wanted him to lose the crutch, but a deeper, more profound, and way wiser voice was whispering to him (whisper like a distant shout) to do what would be less of a hindrance and a problem. If he dropped the tray trying to do this on his own, it would only merit more stares, stares of sympathy, of humor, and that tended to bruise pride pretty bad.

The clarity, and easy acceptance of this, startled him.

And this wasn't about pride, this was about getting food into himself before his stomach imploded. Instinct, pure instinct, satiate the goal, not the ego. He searched around the mess until his eyes settled on the only face that sparked immediate familiarity. He moved from the line and hobbled over to Zelenka who seemed about ready to leave as he wiped his mouth with a napkin and tossed the napkin onto the empty tray. The sound of the crutch, when close enough, caught Radek's attention and his head whipped around.

" Colonel Sheppard!" he seemed to yelp the name, which made John flinch.

" Um, hey doc Z."

" You are out of the infirmary already? Rodney said you were very injured. As in, 'not see the outside of the infirmary for months', injured. Uh, his words, not mine."

John smirked at that. " Kind of got that the moment you said them. What can I say, they weren't that bad and I'm a quick healer."

" But Rodney said..."

" You know what? Rodney says a lot of things. It doesn't matter."

" But I have been hearing rumors..."

" You should never listen to rumors, doc, you know that. Listen, before you say anything else, can I ask you a favor?"

Zalenka blinked and stammered at that. " Y-yes, yes, of course Colonel. What is it?"

John lifted his bandaged wrist. " A little help."

Zelenka stared at the hand until he perked with realization. " Oh! Oh, yes of course. You need help with getting food. Of course I can help."

Radek rose and the two headed back into the line. Pit-cold hunger had John loading the tray, and trying to hide it from view of the rest of the mess with his body. Waffles, toast, oatmeal, bacon, eggs, fruit bowl, two muffins, a small carton of orange juice, of milk, and a cup of tea.

John had yet to eat that much in a day, let alone a sitting. He cringed at the amount, and peered over his shoulder periodically to see if anyone had noticed.

" Wow," Zelenka said as he lifted the ladened tray. " You must be quite hungry."

" Yeah. But could we not say it out loud for everyone to hear?" John limped over to the table tucked at the farthest end of the mess, devoid of any bodies. He had Zelenka set the tray on the side where John could have his back to the rest of the occupants.

" Thanks doc." John set the crutch against the table and eased himself into the chair.

" Glad to help," Radek replied. " Anything else?"

John shook his head, all eyes for the food.

" Then I must go. Rodney has me running diagnostics on the cylinder device, and I'd rather not hear him rant about results."

" Beat him to the punch, doc," John said. He grabbed his fork, and attacked the waffles first, hunched over the food and fighting the need to shovel. He couldn't have sat down more than two minutes ago, and the waffles were half gone.

" My gosh, doesn't Beckett ever feed you?"

John sucked in a breath and choked with bits of waffle and syrup flying from his mouth. A heavy hand hammered into his back hard enough for his spine to nearly scrape his sternum. Another set of more delicate, feminine hands grabbed up the carton of orange juice, pulled it open and thrust it into John's hand. John swigged it down in three huge swallows until the obstruction in his wind pipe went with it. But he kept on coughing afterwards.

" Jeez, McKay!" he choked.

McKay dropped into the seat beside John, setting down his own tray then moving the crutch to the other side of his own chair. " What? The only time I ever see a tray that full is when it's Ronon's."

The Satedan took the seat across from McKay, with a tray just as full as John's, but without the abashment. " When you're hungry, you're hungry," he said.

Teyla was already in the seat on John's other side, her tray carrying only oatmeal, a muffin, and juice. She smiled at John.

" It is good to see you are following Beckett's instructions."

John paused with dripping fork in the air en route to his mouth. " Actually... Ronon's right. I'm just really hungry."

Rodney shook a sugar packet as he looked John over. " Previous comment disregarded, I've been witness to the trays Beckett brought you." He slapped the packet down and proceeded to feel along John's shoulder and down his back.

John jerked away from the groping. " McKay, what the hell! Making sure I'm real or something? Stop doing that!"

McKay snatched his hand away before John could stab it with his fork.

" You say what the hell to me? What the hell to you! Haven't you gained any weight? I can still feel bone."

John cut furiously into his waffle. " Shut up, McKay."

" Actually, you could always feel bone on him," Ronon rejoindered. John looked up from his efforts to give the runner his most withering stare. Ronon reacted as he always did, by not reacting at all.

" What they _mean_ ," Teyla said. " Is that you are still slender, as you have always been."

" Yeah," McKay replied around a mouthful of fake eggs. " That's what I said, bony. The amount of food you've been scarfing should have put a little more padding between you and your ribs by now. Hell, if anything, I swear you actually lost weight. You just look... I don't know... skinnier."

Ronon shrugged. " Looks the same to me."

Useless as it was, John attempted another glare.

Rodney was right, but John wasn't about to say so. After the run through of vitals and X-rays, Beckett had John weighed, and almost choked on air to see Sheppard a fourth of a pound lighter.

Answer – the serum, and morphing into that monster the other night. The theory shared by the two was that more energy was required in order to accommodate both the body and the ability to change. It was Beckett's own theory, and hope, that John's constant hunger was only the body's way of gaining back all that had been lost during the days spent as the creature, and that eventually it would level out, and John would be satisfied hunger wise.

John hoped so. He was getting sick of the weird looks, and the constant salivating.

McKay leaned in close. " It's that serum thing, isn't it?"

John narrowed his eyes. " The words 'duh' mean anything to you, McKay? And keep it down. I'd really appreciate it if my role as Mary Shelley's living example of Frankenstein's monster be kept between us. Wouldn't want the entire city coming at me with pitch forks and torches, now would we?"

" Actually that was the movie. The book ended entirely differently. No mobs, no windmills, and no fires. That book was depressing as hell."

" You're vast knowledge of the literary world astounds me, McKay." With the waffles gone, John licked the plate clean. He set it aside and pulled the oatmeal to him, only to look up and catch the odd stares focused on him. " What?"

Mckay shook his head. " Never mind. Besides, Franky's monster was made of body parts."

" I'm souped up with DNA pieces."

Ronon pointed his dripping fork at Rodney. " He's got you there."

Rodney grabbed the salt shaker and sprinkled it liberally over his eggs. " Just... screw it. Why'd you take the sil last night?"

John shrugged since his mouth was full of oatmeal. He swallowed, then took a swig of milk. " Why does it matter? It's mine anyways... kind of. And I was going to bring it back."

" Uh-huh. Why'd you hide with it in the jumper?"

John's lip curled at the question barrage. He jammed his spoon into the gray mush someone had politely labeled oatmeal. It needed honey, and raisins, but he'd forgotten both. " Again, does it matter? Listen, a little girl almost died building that thing, and I almost died keeping it away from a big blob of smoke that makes that No Face thing on that _Spirited Away_ movie we watched last month look cute and cuddly. If I feel like protecting it myself, then I sure as hell am going to." He dropped his plastic spoon and pushed back from the table. He disregarded the crutch to limp over to the condiments table and grab honey and a box of raisins. On limping back, he hadn't even sat down when he squeezed the honey on and dumped the raisins in. Digging in, he found both a massive improvement – in taste and for his mood.

" Don't ask me anything else about last night," John said between bites. " I knew what I was doing."

" Protecting the device," Ronon said.

John gestured at the Satedan with his bound wrist as far as the useless sling would let him. " See! He gets it. If Diviante got through the shield, think we'd be able to stop him?"

" Why does this Diavante want the device so badly?" asked Teyla.

John paused before taking another bite. " I... don't really know. He just does. That, and Atlantis. Either way, I'm not taking any chances."

" Well, just don't go pouncing on any of us in the middle of the night on accident when the need to protect kicks in," Rodney said, then bit into a muffin.

" Louder, McKay, I don't think everyone in the mess quite heard you."

" Relax, Colonel, no one cares. You tend to pounce whatever your... present condition. I'm just saying to watch where you land when you do."

John finished the oatmeal, licked the bowl clean, then went for the fruit, also licking it clean. He licked just about everything clean say for the tray and cartons. The tea he saved for last until it was cooled enough not to burn his throat, and it wasn't until he came to the tea that he realized – he wasn't hungry anymore.

He quirked an eyebrow. " Hey... I think I'm full."

Rodney dropped his fork to raise both hands. " Well praise the food gods, Sheppard's full."

John elbowed him in the flank. " Quit being sacrilegious."

" I wasn't," McKay snapped.

" To some religion out there you were." John held the cup of tea in both hands, allowing the warmth to spread through his palms. He sipped it, and that warmth slid throughout the rest of his body. He'd never realized the simple joy of being full – or at least satisfied enough not to want anything more, or bite the tray in irritation of it being empty. " This is better. You guy's want to do something? Take a walk? Hang out on the balcony? Annoy Kavenaugh?"

Rodney scraped the last of his eggs and bacon onto his fork with a piece of toast. " As much as I would love to give that man a migraine, you and I have work to do. Since you're so up in arms about what happens to that sil, you can help me study it, make sure I'm not doing anything that would hurt your little _precious_."

John jerked his elbow harder this time, eliciting a yelp from McKay. " Let's go play then," he said, setting down his empty cup.

In unison, Teyla, John, and Rodney deposited their empty trays onto Ronon's empty tray and said as one, "Thanks," on getting up and heading from the table, Rodney handing John back his crutch.

Ronon just growled, and took the trays.

SGASGASGASGA

It didn't seem right, but John was having fun playing with the sil. With the gate activated and the shield on, John inputed the codes, and the lights of the gate room immediately flickered and powered down. The blackout wasn't quite the ordeal with it being morning, just a skin-crawling annoyance for the techies in the control room.

" What the hell are you doing Dr. McKay!" Someone dared to bark. McKay didn't waste time on a response. It was all about the sil today. Stepping up to the gate with the sil in one hand, he placed his other hand on the shield, and gaped when it slipped right through.

" Oh wow! Freakin' wow! That is... is..."

Smirking, John came up beside Rodney and slid his hand through the shield as well. " Genius."

" Very."

They pulled their hands out, then waited with Rodney watching his watch. Five minutes, it took five minutes for the sil to power down and the lights to flicker back on. Rodney had John re-enter the codes, and the lights flickered back into darkness. He then had John head from the gateroom, and once passed the control room the lights hummed back on. Rodney jotted it all down on a tiny notepad.

" Timed and proximity sensitive," he chuckled in astonishment. " This really is..."

" Genius," John finished as he hopped down the steps. " I think Krissa's going to surpass you when she hits your age, McKay."

McKay snorted as he continued to jot. " Yeah, in matters of shield technology. What does she know about worm hole physics?"

John turned his mouth up in another smirk. " You really want to know? It just might make you cry."

McKay stuffed the notepad into his pocket, then yanked the sil from John's hands. " Cry? Or be impressed?" Rodney quirked an eyebrow.

" Cry, trust me."

They started heading for the lab, ignoring the dirty techy looks thrown their way. Rodney rotated the sil over in his hands as he studied it. Light flashed off the dark metal free of blood smears.

" So, uh," Rodney began, " what... exactly... do you look like when you... um, change?" The perusal was a ruse. Rodney was pointedly not looking at John.

John narrowed his eyes. A very complimentary question to the one Elizabeth had asked him this morning. But John had been expecting it to come a lot sooner.

It had never occurred to him until now the underlying tentativeness people seemed to be harboring around him. It manifested mostly as hesitancy in certain questions, although Beckett had been more profound about it. He had cut back on his stern warnings he normally dished out to John concerning matters of rest, food, and not overtaxing the body. Today, those warnings had come out sounding more like gentle reminders – 'don't forget to rest, don't forget to eat' rather than 'do as I say or I'll haul you back in here and strap you down!' Maybe a little overboard, but there had been times when Beckett had made such threats along those lines.

Again, not today. John actually found himself longing for the threats, because that's how it was supposed to be.

" I look like a monster."

" Scaley monster? Furry monster? Ugly monster? Care to elaborate?"

John sighed irritably. " Scaley."

They fell into uncomfortable silence for a moment until Rodney cleared his throat. " Um, maybe you could... draw a picture. Or... maybe..."

" No."

Rodney's head snapped up and around. " But you didn't hear..."

" Don't have to. I'm not slipping into critter mode just for a sneak peek. Krissa said the serum wears off faster if you don't take the form as much."

Rodney eyed John curiously. " You want it to be gone? But you've made it sound so... harmless."

" It is harmless. Doesn't mean I like being able to do it. I don't feel comfortable becoming some kind of... thing. It's weird, freaky, and nothing I'd do again unless I absolutely had to. And since you seem so hard-pressed to know, I look like a... I don't know, a dragon. A sharp, spikey dragon. Claws, teeth, the works."

" Ever consider the merits becoming some kind of super creature has?"

John coughed out a biting laugh. " No, I mostly think about the side-effects, like madness due to prolonged use of the serum, and eventual black blood. Oh, and don't forget the paranoia, I think Bart forget to mention that part."

" Bart?"

" Yeah, Bart, the genetic goblin who'd probably understand worm-hole physics even if you were the one explaining it. He filled me in on what it means to be a were-thing, but I'm starting to suspect he wasn't filled in on the whole deal himself. You may be safe from what I turn into, but I have no idea what it's really doing to me, and that makes me nervous, McKay. So don't take it personally if I refuse to slap on the secondary skin. Besides, I only have so many shirts I can rip holes into."

Although he did have a secret longing sprouting in the darker recesses of his soul to head back to the Cyladran world with the sil in hand, a P-90 at his back, and tearing through eraks with fang and claw.

 _If they can cheat, I can cheat._ It had been a massive blow to the mind learning that the Cys weren't the advanced pricks everyone had took them for – like being held up at gunpoint only to discover that the gun had been empty. Yet another heaping to add onto the 'Mathers had died for no reason' mountain.

SGA

" John?"

Krissa remained in the corner, in the shadows, in the darkness. John reached out to her, smiling, terrified, heart beating hard enough to shatter on his sternum.

" It's all right, Krissa. You can come out. It's Atlantis. You're safe in Atlantis."

The shadows were thick. All the same, John could see her face, angled in black and gray. She was crying. " I – I _can't_!"

" Yes you can, Krissa. Just step forward. Diavante can't get you now."

" Yes he can...!"

The shadow crept up the wall like spreading oil, devouring, growing, multiplying. It surrounded John until Krissa was all he could see.

Krissa sniffed. " He's here, John."

John's gaze went up, past Krissa's head. He heard a hiss, and the silhouette doppelganger of his monster self lunged at him with claws spread and mouth gaping.

John bolted up, and caught the rim of the stool just as he felt himself slipping off it. But the save was futile, and both he and the stool went clattering onto the lab floor.

" Crap, Colonel, what the hell!" Rodney's shrill yelp of alarm drilled sharp into John's ears, but McKay's next question was its antithesis as he helped John up with a hand gripping each arm. " You okay?"

John's heart was still doing that fist-like pounding. Once on his feet and showing no signs of another topple, Rodney released him to pick up the stool. John, to hide the shaking in his hands, adjusted his shirt and dusted off his pants. " Yeah, I'm good. Just a dream."

" What about?"

John smoothed out his shirt while looking away to the table. " You had to be there."

Sheppard could feel Rodney's suspicious scrutiny. Returning Rodney's gaze didn't deter it. Rodney grabbed John by the elbow and began to bodily escort him to the door.

" Conking out on a lab table isn't the rest Carson was talking about. Out, now, before master medical warlock gazes into his crystal ball and chews both our butts for your inability to follow simple instructions. And I swear," he stopped inside the door, with John standing outside the door, " no harming your _precious_."

Glaring, John yanked his elbow from Rodney's grip. " Whatever. But I appreciate it."

" Good, now go take a nap." With that said, the door slid closed.

John smirked. " Yes mommy!" he called.

To which Rodney replied in a high toned voice, " Get bent deary!"

John chuckled as he walked away, but humor wasn't a lasting sentiment when the dream stole back into his mind. With it came cold creeping like tendrils up his back, and he shivered. Worse than that was the remembrance of Krissa's face.

He automatically altered course away from his quarters, veering toward the gate control room. Instinct had proved right when he found Elizabeth talking to one of the techies hunched over a console. Elizabeth saw him on approach, and straightened with hands clasped behind her back.

" Colonel Sheppard," she said with a warm smile. " Last I heard, Rodney dragged you off to the lab."

" Actually, he went, I followed," John said. " Can we talk? In private?"

Weir's smile weakened slightly. " Of course."

They went to the conference room, the doors sliding shut like automatic shades. Rather than take her usual seat, Elizabeth took the first one she came to, and John sat beside her, both turned to face eachother.

" Got a favor to ask."

The corner of Elizabeth's eyes tightened, but the smile stuck. " Depends, of course, but shoot."

" If – when – Beckett clears me, I want to take part in the search for Krissa."

Weir dropped her smile and creased her brow. " But... that would mean going back to Sriot."

John leaned forward with his arms on his knees, and nodded. " Yeah, I know."

" And you're okay with that?"

John shrugged. " Sure, why wouldn't I be?"

" Because you almost died there?" she replied matter-of-factly.

" I almost died a lot of places. Hasn't stopped me yet. Listen, I'm not talking some long term stay the night kind of gig. I'm talking about going back for a little inquiry, making my presence known, which in turn might produce better results. If Krissa's people are hiding her, if she is around on that world, then maybe me being the one looking for her might make her feel more comfortable to come out, or at least send us some kind of word. I mean... I don't know... maybe my helping won't do crap, but then again maybe it will." John looked down at his hands, recalling the dream, and Krissa's face. " She trusted me with her life."

He looked up at Elizabeth and held her gaze. " And at the same time saved and kept trying to save mine. She didn't even know me and right off the bat she helped me and let me help her. Well... actually, she was pretty upset about me volunteering to protect her, but she let me. That's a lot of trust I'm not going to let down without a fight."

Elizabeth sighed, and her body sagged as though draining. " John, we don't even know if she got away..."

Hot irritation prickled on John's skin, and he lifted a rigid finger. " Don't... say that. She had time to get away. She was almost home. Diavante was right behind _me_."

" But John, no one from Sriot has admitted to seeing her. If they are hiding her, do you really think your presence would make a difference?"

The irritation went from prickling to burning. " Yes, yes I do. Krissa knows me. She doesn't know Lorne, Stackhouse or the rest. I was the one who promised to bring her to Atlantis, so logically I really need to be the one to do so. Look, Elizabeth, I didn't say it was a guarantee, but it feels... right, logical, possible. And I want to do it."

" What about Diavante? What if your presence drags him out?"

Again, John shrugged. " What about Diavante? Whether I'm here or on Sriot, I don't think it'll matter. That freakin' mutant Ancient hasn't reared his ugly misshapen head yet, which could mean dozens of things. If he isn't bothering the teams you've sent through, then he's probably not going to bother me. He wants the sil and Atlantis, not me. Whatever he's up to... I don't know, maybe better to have it out sooner or later. Elizabeth, I need to do this, because this time around I can."

John didn't need to elaborate, Elizabeth understood, John could see it in the way her expression softened.

Mathers. That said it all.

Elizabeth inclined her head. " All right, but only if Beckett clears you."

John smiled, and rose from his chair as the doors turned opened.

" John?" Elizabeth said. John stopped and turned to see Elizabeth still seated.

" What?"

" Just... be prepared. It's been days since you came back, and when the search started. There is a good chance..."

" I know," John cut in, his heart thudding like a wet sack being tossed about. " Probably better than you think."

With that said, he hurried from the conference room. He was clinging to hope, yes, but at the same time kept his back turned on it.

He had to try, even if trying was all he could do.

TBC...


	27. Rage

_'How fine you look when dressed in rage...'_

 _The Cheshire Cat, American McGee's Alice_

Perfectionism was back, and it made John's skin crawl when he stepped from the gate and onto the short, dew-crisp grass. It was the worse kind of subterfuge, because it was all natural, like a pretty little dream before the darkness. It recalled to John a book he once read, borrowed from one of McKay's slaves – a fantasy addict – because War and Peace was putting him to sleep. He didn't recall the title since it was only one as part of a series. What he remembered most about it was a hell-world dimension of perpetual spring – like Sriot – until any form of shadows or darkness touched it. Then trees would become tentacled monsters, Bambi-like deer slavering demon dogs, and grass bloodsucking worms, or some such as.

Oh yes, that was Sriot – no offense to the residents intended. It wasn't their fault the dark woods harbored genetic demons like Diavante.

Again, John shuddered. His eyes traveled to the DHD.

" Not much rain," he said.

McKay, scanning their surroundings in a squinty-eyed manner, looked up at the sky. " Huh?"

John jerked his head at the DHD, smeared and splotched with hand-prints darker than the element making up the DHD, tricky to notice unless one knew what to look for. McKay shifted his scrutinizing to the device, even moving in close, then blanched.

" Oh crap, is that yours?"

The hand print size looked about right. " Yep. Someone should think about taking a little Windex to that before it freaks out the locals."

McKay looked over at John in alarm. " That's not funny."

John pulled his sunglasses from his pocket and preoccupied himself with cleaning the lenses using the edge of his shirt. " As long as that bloods mine, it is." He placed the shades on, then shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling positively exposed without his jacket or vest. It had been his idea to come without both, in part because he wanted to be more recognizable were Krissa in a position to spot him, and in part in case something had him going to critter mode. He didn't want to loose another jacket, and there was no reason to ruin a perfectly good vest by any means other than weapons fire. Besides, the weather was good, warm enough for a long sleeved shirt. He had his nine millimeter, knife, and – of course – critter mode.

Except that he hated critter mode.

A hand touched him lightly on the arm, drawing his attention from the DHD to a concerned Teyla.

" Are you certain you wish to do this?" The polite way of saying 'you're not gonna flip out, are you?' John smiled but had to keep his jaw clamped tight to stop himself from laughing.

" Positive." So positive that he'd actually got Kate to back him up on it when he noticed the doubt creeping into Elizabeth's eyes. It had been him and Kate against Weir and Beckett – kind of. Speed healing had John back – at most - to eighty or so percent, give or take. A few aches, a few twinges, but nothing more. Topping that, John wasn't unnaturally ravenous so much. But Beckett, being the mother hen that he was, seemed unable to ever give an absolute all clear. He always had to hesitate, force further test after test after test. But the Scottish doc's influence hadn't been up to par as of late, and he caved sooner than even John had expected.

Seems the unease critter mode created did have an advantage. Still, even with getting what he wanted, John didn't like the means to the end it had taken to get it. He didn't want people nervous around him, not even remotely.

Then again, maybe Carson saw no threat to a simple visit involving nothing more than searching for a missing girl.

It was too hard to say, but John went with the latter in order to stem down the guilt.

Elizabeth's consent was thanks to Heightmeyer, who saw therapeutic merit in John's return to the world that nearly killed him. But in all truth, there had been no reluctance in John's decision to return. He had a promise to keep, and like hell any Post Traumatic Stress was going to get in the way of that.

Still, being on Sriot, without P-90, vest, and jacket, made him feel like an 'eat me' sign had been pinned to his back. And visions of a giant, serrated fanged maw still danced in his head.

" Let's do this," he said, and led the way back over the hills to the peaceful little town nestled in the valley. Teyla, Ronon, and McKay followed with Lorne and four marines spread out taking point. John was struck by the sudden urge to get the trek over and done with by bounding over the hills on all fours at a dead run. It was an urge he suppressed with a swallow and a chuckle.

" What?" McKay prodded. " What's so funny?"

John shook his head. " Nothing you'd understand."

McKay, huffing and puffing as he tried to keep up with John's longer and more energetic strides, shook his head. " Try me."

" Can't. Don't really get it myself."

Rodney's hand shot up toward John's forehead, and he flinched away.

" What the crap McKay!"

Rodney rolled his eyes. " I'm making sure you don't have a fever."

" Carson put you up to it?"

" No... Maybe. Look, it's your own fault. Stop laughing for no reason and I won't play Beckett. This isn't exactly an ideal place or time to go all funny in the head."

John chuckled again, which had Rodney tensing.

" What! What now?"

John twitched his head. " McKay, your choice of medical jargon has always been good for a laugh. 'Funny in the head'..."

McKay glowered. " Jargon aside," he replied huffily, " it's the blatant truth and you know it."

" Actually, you've been saying it enough since the day we met to get me to actually start believing it. Seriously, Rodney, I'm find. It's just a screwed-up universe having me come back here – making me question my own sanity. So I don't blame you for the funny-head remark. But you know what? I'm freakin' glad I came back. It's a beautiful day, the sun is shining, the weather's warm..." he patted his nine-mil tucked safely in its thigh holster. " And if _Master_ Diavante rears his bloated head, I can fill it with a few bullets, maybe even tear something out for good measure. So... It's all good, Rodney." And he patted the physicist's shoulder for emphasis.

Rodney flinched. " Crap, you are funny in the head. And what makes you think a creature you described as looking like an ink-stain can be taken down? Huh? If he's half-ascended..."

John's attention span decreased rapidly. Not that he didn't want to listen to what Rodney had to say, he just didn't want to answer the question and end up getting an earful.

He'd never said anything about killing Divante, just satisfying a sadistic need even if it proved futile. John had no intention of going the way of Savine. He would fight to the last breath and last drop of blood before he let Diavante swallow him whole.

Plus, as much as he hated to admit it, he was scared about being back on Sriot. Instinct was shrieking at him to turn and high-tail it off this overly pretty rock of doom, and the constant fearful babble was pissing him off. So, yes, he was entitled to being a 'little funny in the head'. It wasn't like he was going to teeter into irrationally psychotic any time soon.

They crested the hill overlooking Gen, and crested down into the valley, following the road and knocking John upside the head with a bad case of deja-vu. The only thing missing was a wagon, furry horse, and Beckett. They entered the town that greeted them with warm smiles, welcome-backs, and questions concerning any luck seeking out the girl Krissa. John set to work spreading the word of his presence as it were. He spoke with the Guardians, store owners, and a few town officials they chanced across.

Even when midday came, John still had steam enough to keep going, but not certain members of his team. McKay veered toward a fruit stand with chocolate bar in hand, ready for trade, but John snagged him by the collar of his jacket.

" Whoa! Where do you think you're going?"

Rodney pointed at the chocolate, then at the stand. " I – I was just going to snag a little snack. Hypoglycemic, remember? Chocolate doesn't always cut it."

John looked at the bar, then at the cart of multicolored fruit. Saliva pooled quick, nearly leaking from his lips. " Yeah... a snack..." He released McKay to follow him across the street. John looked up at the clatter of numerous footfalls marching their way, and saw rounding the bend a small gaggle of men in the prim suits of officials. Taking the lead was a tall, fair-haired man with a thin, sharp-featured face that looked almost pinched. The man and his entourage slowed on seeing John. The blond man raised a stiff finger aimed directly at the Colonel.

" You! Are you the one they call Sheppard?"

Instinct was practically threatening John now. Adrenaline filled his veins like fire, and he had to shove his hand back into his pockets to hide their trembling.

" Um..." he gulped, feeling sweat tickle annoyingly down his back. " Who – who wants to know?" He winced at the way his voice cracked.

The blond leader hurried forward. " Where is my daughter!" And he shoved John back. " What happened to my Krissa! Where is she! Why do you seek her!" He shoved John again, harder this time. Ronon, always nearby, growled and advanced until John raised his hand for the Satedan to stop.

" You'd be Mr. Ameens, then," John said, keeping his hand up and the runner at bay. " Yeah, I'm John Sheppard. Listen, I don't know where your daughter is. That's why I'm here. I'm trying to look for her. And, since apparently you are too, I guess it's safe to say you have no idea where she is..."

" What happened to her!" Mr. Ameens snarled, taking another menacing step toward John. John felt the change prickling within him, but he shoved it aside like an overly eager dog trying to go for a lick at the face.

" I don't know, Mr. Ameens. That's what I'm trying to find out. I was one of your daughter's protectors and we got separated trying to escape from Diavante's home. Savine was coming after her, we had to leave fast. I mean, on the plus side, Savine's dead, but I'm afraid so is Bren. Krissa and I got separated when Diavante came after us..."

John trailed at the spark of fear he noticed in Mr. Ameens eyes. In fact, John was struck by the oddity of any lack of reaction on Mr. Ameens part say for that little flicker that kept coming and going like an ember that wouldn't die.

Taking notice, bringing it to light, John focused on that bit of fear until he could practically smell it – even feel it – oozing off the man in cold waves. It rippled from behind as well, from the small throng of men standing idly by, their only movement the occasional shifting of feet.

" Um..." John stammered. " I was... hoping that Krissa might just be in hiding. Because – if she is – I just wanted to let her know that I'm all right, and that I hope that she's all right. And to tell her that the offer I made her still stands..."

Mr. Ameens' next shove sent John sprawling onto his back.

" Get out," Ameens hissed. " Get out of here, all of you. Now, while you can. _I_ will find my daughter. You need not worry about her. So go, _now_!"

With that said, Ameens turned on his heels and stalked away with the male gaggle trailing. John stared after them, wondering, considering, his mind going fast and furious as it worked the situation out. He felt a light thump on his shoulder, and turned his ponderous head to see McKay's hand reaching down for him. John took it to be hefted to his feet.

McKay looked from John to the men vanishing back around the bend. " W-what was that all about?"

John, dusting himself off by slapping his pants, narrowed his eyes. " I don't know." He recalled the fear, the stench of it, the feel of it.

Ronon came up beside John. " Overstayed welcome?"

John shrugged. " Never seemed to be a problem before." He looked at Lorne. " Has it?"

Lorne shook his head. " No sir. We've talked to Mr. Ameens before. He was worried, said he wanted to start a search of his own, but was never hostile, never said we couldn't help."

John nodded. " We should head back to the gate, let dad cool down a little, come back tomorrow and try again..."

Maybe it was paranoia all over again – John wouldn't be surprised – but something felt off, and paranoia or not it would be stupid not to give in to those nagging urges of worry. John was sick of learning that little lesson the hard way.

They stayed long enough to trade for fruit from a bewildered vendor who kept apologizing for Ameens' actions. They snacked on fruit while heading back, feeling no qualms on tossing away the bio-degradable cores along the way. Paranoia danced about Sheppard's brain, and tried to get the change to join the party. It prickled along his skin, and sent chills up and down his spine, making him shiver.

" Colonel, are you all right?" Teyla asked.

John nodded stiffly. " Yeah it's just..." He looked over at her. " Did you get the feeling that Ameens was really nervous? I mean not about us, just in general."

" He was very agitated, yes," Teyla replied. " But that seemed more out of anger than unease."

John rubbed the back of his neck to massage away the crawling sensation. " I don't know, maybe it was just me. Something seemed off about the whole deal. Then again he could just be pissed at me and didn't want to miss the opportunity to chew into me. Either that or he knows where Krissa is and sees our search as a danger, a chance she might be given away. I can understand it if it's the latter. We could very well be making things worse..."

 _Or he could be pissed_. John couldn't say, and the lack of knowing was already starting to tear him apart. He couldn't just call off the search. Look where doing that had gotten Mathers' remains? And Krissa was still alive, so the outcome had far more weighing on it.

John felt suddenly very, very tired. He sniffed, and caught on the air a strange scent he couldn't quite place because it hadn't been part of the menagerie of smells before. They were nearing the gate, and John slowed. He might have felt drained, but it was a momentary lapse of energy quickly erased by another surge of adrenaline.

Eyes, he felt eyes on them. John's heart became a hammer against his chest. He slowed, and the others slowed with him until he stopped.

Ronon quirked an eyebrow. " Sheppard?"

John's eyes flitted over the little valley where the gate sat like a lonely fragment of some long-lost structure. Several of Lorne's men were already moving on ahead to secure the perimeter of the gate. John rubbed at his neck a little harder.

" Something doesn't feel right. Maybe..." the rest was lost to him when something cold struck his back, and darkness slapped itself over his eyes before he even hit the ground.

SGASGASGASGASGA

John awoke to a familiarity that was scaring the hell out of him. Excruciating pain in his spine, the scent of cooking fires and unwashed bodies, and accented babble. Even in a haze, it came together, and terror-born instinct had him pushing away the darkness and bolting upright with a gasp. Hands grabbed him by the shoulder, and he jerked away from them to scrambled back until his spine hit something solid.

" Sheppard! Whoa, hey! Relax, calm down..."

The voice cut through the muddle, and John cleared his head with a twitch until McKay's face swam into focus. McKay's bruised, blood-smeared face. John's heart crawled back out of his throat, but refused to slow down, and because of it he was panting fast.

" McKay! What the hell!" he shot his ahead around, panic swelling in his chest until he couldn't breathe.

They weren't in a barn. It was a cage, some kind of make-shift cage surrounded by three boarded walls, with thick, gnarled bars making up the forth wall to John's right. Beyond the bars was a forest going gray with a day descending toward twilight. Camp fires cut through the waning light, flickering and coiling oily smoke. And there were people, lots and lots of people. They wore uniforms, every one, two kinds of uniforms so sickeningly familiar to John that he couldn't have stopped the oncoming cringe even if he had been aware of it.

One uniform – Genii. The other – Cyladran.

John's heart clamored back into his throat, and he swallowed to shove it back down. " Oh you've got to be kidding me."

He looked back at McKay's dirtied and pale face.

" What – what happened?"

" Ambush. First you go down, then Ronon, Teyla, Lorne, a couple of his men. Of course – since they seemed to be going in terms of threat..." he said with minor disgust, " they took me down last. Mind you I managed to get off a couple of rounds... all... misses – but one of them tackled me, which I guess'll teach them to leave any man standing – not that I wanted to get zapped mind you..."

" McKay!" John snapped more forcefully than intended.

McKay exhaled a shuddering breath. " Anyways, we were attacked, knocked out, and now here we are."

John looked passed Rodney to see Teyla and Ronon against the back wall, attempting to massage away the affects of the stunners. John would have done the same, except that he didn't care, because outside milled two of Atlantis' biggest enemies. All that was missing was the wraith, and the hysterical part of John's mind kept waiting expectantly for them to come sauntering in.

And, oh boy, wouldn't it be quite the shin-dig then. A nice, cozy ' Anti-Sheppard and team' support group. _Oh how Sheppard wronged us. Off with his head then!_

John turned his head back toward the bars. " Genii and Cys, huh? Crap I had so better be dreaming."

" You okay?"

John's head snapped back to Rodney. " Um, not really, McKay. Have you looked outside the cage lately?" he spat. Really not a good time to be taking everything out on Rodney, but he seemed unable to help himself.

" No, Colonel, I've gone suddenly blind," Rodney shot back. John tended to forget about Rodney's emotional shield called sarcasm. " I'm aware of the situation! I meant physically fine. You're shaking, like you're cold or something." Rodney's expression softened. " You're not sick or – you know..." he jerked his head toward the enemies prowling around beyond the cage, " getting in a biting, clawing, ripping ,tearing mood?"

John released an unsteady breath and shook his head. He was surprised to see Rodney deflate, then scowl.

" Oh well that's just freakin' great! The one time that little talent could come in handy and it's taking a nap. Come on, Colonel, just go were, rip up these bars, and..."

Something banged against the bars, and both John and McKay whipped their gazes around to see a face that had bile shooting into John's throat.

Nightmare of nightmares – Menk was crouched before the bars with a tin cup in one hand, and he was smirking.

" John," he said pleasantly. " Meetin' again I see. Bet you thought yourself cleansed of me."

John shook his head slowly from side to side. " Oh no," he scooted along the wall, toward the back, never taking his eyes from that grinning visage he'd hoped had been resigned to bad dreams. " No, no, no, no, hell no! What the freakin' hell!"

Menk held up his hand. " John, John. Calm, now. Breathe. No need for panic. Listen, much as I wish to stay and catch up, I fear I've lingered a bit long. I'm needed back. Just waitin' around for you to wake and to tell you what's what about your situation. Seems you've been takin' what isn't yours again. Not too bright of you. You're to be our guest until that somethin' is returned – one way or the other. It'll be explained in plenty time enough, but I fear I can't stick around for it. Sorry, John. Must be off now."

Menk rose and walked out of sight on the other side of the cage. But out of sight, out of mind didn't hold true. John's heart refused to slow, his breaths ditto. And, oddly enough, the one time he wished for the change, it refused to come thanks to the shock of pain it caused to his still throbbing spine. But that didn't stop him from tearing across the gritty floor and grip the bars until his knuckles turned white.

" Menk you son of a...! Get back here! I'm going to rip off your frakin' head! Do you hear me! You're dead, Menk! I'm gonna kill you!" He felt a hand on his shoulder, a distant sensation he shrugged furiously away, except that it kept coming back.

" Colonel!"

Teyla's voice, which always managed to burrow through whatever haze John's mind was in, gentle yet firm. " Colonel, you must calm down." She tugged on his shoulder until he complied, rejoining Ronon and McKay at the back wall. But he never took his eyes from the bars.

Night came quick, with the fires blindingly brilliant in the thick darkness. People came and went, and those who drew in close enough to the cage would either laugh, throw something, or spit.

" Can you change yet?" Rodney growled, wiping spittle from his face.

John tried, only to have his spine flare uncomfortably. He grimaced, then sagged back against the wall, panting. " L – little more time. I think that stunner screwed it up." He curled his bare toes into the soft dirt, having removed his boots so they wouldn't hinder the change.

" Do you really believe they desire the sil?" Teyla asked.

" No doubt about it. Cys get their crap from Diavante, Genii probably get a little piece of that action too – one of the scientists was Genii. I'm thinking that's what Ameens was freaked out about. He knew the two were here, maybe even looking for Krissa. He was trying to warn us but couldn't, not if they'd infiltrated the town without anyone knowing. Or maybe Diavante was around. The fact is, obviously, they were waiting for us."

McKay blinked rapidly. " But - but how did they know when to come, to wait?"

" They've been waiting," Ronon growled. " Teams have been going back and forth for days." The runner looked over at John. " They were probably just waiting for you."

" But how did they know Sheppard was coming?" Rodney asked next.

John closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the wall. " Diavante," he sighed wearily.

" Wait, I thought you said he was some kind of dream reader, not a mind reader," Rodney countered.

" Yes, but Diavante had plenty of time to get to know me. I'm pretty sure he was counting on me to come back and seek out Krissa." John then opened his eyes and lifted his head. " What I don't get is everything else. Powerful blob like that, you'd think he'd just come get me himself. And what's up with the funky alliance? If it's the sil Diavante wants so bad, why not get _it_ himself. For acting all powerful he's starting to come across as rather pathetic. Unless this is all part of something so big I can't even begin to comprehend it, in which case I'm not even going to try." He dropped his head onto his upturned knees. " We could be screwed no matter what we do. He might have caught us just to get us to escape, follow us back, follow us through the gate..."

McKay sighed. " And bring his roadies with him, utilizing the sil to keep the shield from activating. Yes, our dilemma is quite crystal clear. Damned if we do, damned if we don't..."

" What?" Ronon said.

" Earth idiom. Translated... we're screwed no matter what we do."

Someone thumped the bars. John raised his head to see a middle-aged Genii soldier with brown hair fading into gray, and square, craggy features. Behind him stood two Genii, and three Cys.

John furrowed his brow at the gathered. " What, no Koyla? Gee, you'd think he'd want to be here for this..."

The older Genii grinned. " Koyla knows you are here."

" But, what, he has more pressing matters than satisfying the need to get back at me?"

" No. It is simply not time yet. Koyla will come once the device is procured. At the moment, you are needed – whole and unharmed. After that, you are to be given over to Koyla for him to do to you as he sees fit."

John tensed, shifting. " Needed for what?"

" Needed to convince your people to relinquish the device known as the sil to us. We have already sent several of your team back to apprise your people of the situation. I would like you to make contact with them, let them know how serious a situation it is, and ask them to hand over the sil in exchange for the lives of the rest of your team."

The older Genii snapped his fingers and pointed into the cell. The two Genii removed the chains securing the door and entered as the three Cys kept their weapons trained on the group. John scrambled to his feet, only to be shoved back down. Ronon attempted the same, only to have a gun drawn on him by one Genii. Teyla and Rodney were grabbed, and dragged protesting from the cage.

Both John and Ronon scrambled to the door just as it was chained shut. John gripped the bars until his fists shook.

" What are you doing!" he snarled.

Rodney and Teyla were hauled seven feet from the cage, and dumped to the ground. The older Genii stepped to the side.

" Incentive, Colonel. We need your full cooperation. This is nothing more than a taste of what will become of your friends if the sil is not obtained."

Rodney, gaping, was grabbed by both arms and lifted to his knees.

" W-What...?" The words died on his lips when a Cy stepped in front of him and smashed him across the face with the butt of his weapon.

" Hey!" John barked. Ronon growled, tugging fiercely at the bars.

Teyla tried to break free and run to Rodney, but was tackled and pinned to the ground by a smirking Cy straddling her back, pinning her arms in place.

" We prefer to do things one at a time," the older Genii casually explained.

Rodney was struck again, harder, and again even harder until the skin over his eyebrow split, oozing blood. Rodney spat more blood onto the ground. The Cy then holstered his weapon, balled his fist, and struck Rodney in the gut. Rodney grunted and began coughing painfully. The Cy shook his head.

" Not good enough," and this time aimed his fist at Rodney's chest. The strike was hard, and Rodney was having trouble sucking in air. He gasped, the air ripping through him in harsh, agonizing rasps.

John's heart beat with wild ferocity, his breath coming so fast it took strings of saliva with it. " Leave him alone!" he snarled. He shook the bars. He even climbed them, in a way, pulling himself up, planting his feet against them, leaning back as he put his weight into trying to pull the bars down.

The Cy slapped Rodney across the side of the physicist's limp head. Rodney spat more blood, and the Cy circled around him, predator and pray, one appraising, one cringing, shaking, and terrified about what might come next.

All with good reason. The Cy's next blow was to the back, right where Rodney had been stunned. Rodney threw his head back and screamed.

" Damnit!" John screamed with him. Teyla tried to buck the Cy off, which only resulted in her hair being grabbed and her head being pulled until her neck was bent in half. She cried out.

John's breathing was going as fast as his heart. He felt the change tickling at the back of his mind, trying to push through. His spine throbbed, pulsed with pain, pushing back, so the change pushed harder. John gritted his teeth against the battle that felt as though it were tearing his insides apart.

" Colonel, I suggest you calm down," the older Genii admonished. " We are not going to kill him. He is merely being used as an example."

Rodney could barely lift his head. Blood stretched from his mouth to stick and soak into his shirt. He did manage to bring his eyes up enough to meet with John, but they were too glazed to register anything coherent. Rodney shook with pain, and all support was from the two men holding him up.

" Rodney?" John said, still clinging to the bars with both feet and hands. Rodney blinked. John swallowed fearfully. " McKay! You hold on, you hear me? I'll get you out of this! Just..."

John's words were cut off by the Cy Striking Rodney in the face, and Rodney whimpered.

The older Genii was all happy smiles. " I suggest you keep quite, Colonel."

The abusive Cy pointed at Rodney's arm, an arm John last recalled having once been in a cast. The Man on that side held the arm up, holding at the wrist and elbow. He then unholstered his weapon, holding it at the barrel.

John numbly shook his head. " No, no, no, no, no..."

He raised the weapon. Rodney shrank back, also shaking his head.

" Oh gosh no," the physicist whimpered.

John licked suddenly dry lips, and tugged repeatedly on the bars. " No, no, no, no, no..." He hadn't listened to the warnings good enough. He should have. He could have prevented this. It was all his fault. Another Mathers, another Krissa, another freakin's failure...!

The Cy raised the weapon, John tugged harder. He adjusted his aim. John tugged even harder.

" No, no, no, leave him alone, no, no..."

The weapon fell hard and fast, striking the arm. Rodney screamed. John screamed, and threw himself against the bars, reaching out through them with one hand. Pain ripped through his spine only to dissolve as he body melded. The hand was a claw, the scream was a roar, and the bars creaked and cracked with his impact. Every head shot his way, and every eye rounded over.

" What the..."

" What happened..."

" Shoot it!"

John acted quickly, back flipping in one fluid motion to land on all fours, then running at the bars, crashing through them to continue straight on at the Cy hovering over Rodney. John leaped, tackled the Cy to the ground, Rolling and flipping the Cy into a tree using hind legs. He heard the near-imperceptible whine of a weapon, and leaped just as it fired. He bounded toward the men holding Rodney, but they dropped him to pull their own weapons. John dodged the bullets with sharp veers, twists, and finally a leap that had him landing on a Genii, while at the same time kicking out at the other. He knocked the first Cy out using his elbow. He then turned, and went for the Cy that had finally released Teyla to stand and raise his gun. John never gave him the chance to fire, but plowed into him, driving him back several feet.

Landing had the man out cold. John turned to deal with the older Genii, but the man was already crumpled lifeless on the ground with Ronon standing over him. That done, now to move on. John went to Rodney, a heap on the ground, with Teyla kneeling beside him, trying to revive him. No time. Teyla gasped when John came up behind Rodney to grab him around the waist, lift him up by going onto two legs, and dragging him swiftly over to Ronon, dropping the unconscious man into the Runner's arms.

John had never seen what a stunned Ronon looked like, but gave no time to contemplating it.

" _Gate,"_ He hissed. " _run!"_

Ronon shook his head. " I don't know where the gate is."

All around them the camp erupted into chaos with people shouting, grabbing weapons, and hurrying toward the cage.

No time. John stepped behind Ronon and shoved him, sending Ronon stumbling forward.

" _Ask!"_ John hissed. He then went to Teyla, lifting her by her jacket and also shoving her forward. He then turned, and bounded toward those approaching Cys and Genii, only to leap over their heads, getting them to follow. He bounded up the trees to leap from trunk to trunk. When he came to a fire, he tore it apart, kicking and tossing dirt into it until it was snuffed out, then went back into the trees, tall as red-woods, scrabbling like a gekko to where the light of the remaining fires couldn't reach. Weapons were fired blindly into the darkness, and John dodged them all with only a few scouring his scaled flesh. He continued to leap, landing on trunks, and fires, amidst Genii and Cys, kicking, clawing, and biting out at them. Some he tackled, one group he landed among, only to leap straight up last minute for the bullets and stunners to fly at unintended targets. All this John did, never pausing, never altering. It was all patterned and precise, thoughts flowing like a storm wind, constant and straight.

Only when the last fire was snuffed and chaos was absolute did he head back to the cage. His team was gone, as they should be. John sniffed the air, and followed the scent of humans and blood.

SGASGASGASGASGA

Rodney came back to the world, and wished he hadn't. Pain swam in his head, throbbed in his chest, and made his stomach do incomprehensible acrobats. Adding to that was darkness, a head rush, and the pain flaring from jostles and bumps.

" Wha..." he slurred, and wished the darkness away so he could see what it was he had his face against. Something smooth, like leather...

" R-Ronon?" His mind could work fast when it wanted to.

" Stay quiet," The Satedan growled. Things snapped and rustled around Rodney. He heard, always far away but everywhere, cries, gun fire, snarls, and roaring. He forced his neck to support his unusually heavy head, but all the wishing in the world hadn't driven the darkness back.

" What's going on?" he rasped.

" I said stay quiet. We're not out yet."

" Out where?"

" Don't you ever listen?" Ronon was starting to sound pissed, and a pissed Ronon was never a happy prospect for one's health. So Rodney acquiesced and dropped his head to dangle and thump against the big man's back.

But a question kept prodding him like a pitchfork. " Where's John?"

Ronon didn't respond. McKay lifted his head, glowering though he knew good and well no one would see it.

" Where's John?"

A roar echoed from behind. Ronon grunted.

" Laying cover."

Rodney furrowed his brow. " Cover?" Then lifted it. " Oh, c-cover, yeah."

" Hurry!" he heard Teyla's voice up ahead.

" Do you even know where we're going?" the runner asked.

More twigs snapped and leaves rustled. A high-pitched whistle sounded, followed by babbling yips and a cacophony of howls way too close for Rodney's comfort. He knew those howls, and his blood took on the consistency of ice.

" Oh no..." he whimpered.

There was a snarl, then a howl, and Rodney felt the impact through Ronon's body as both men toppled to the ground. Rodney tumbled away from Ronon, rolling over moss and dirt. He heard Ronon bellow out a roar of his own, following it up with weapons fire and a yelp from the attacking creature. But even in panic, Rodney's head spun when the pain stabbed through him. Darkness grew darker, and his final thought on the whole matter...

 _Gee, hope that wasn't John he just shot._

Rodney awoke to blinding, brilliant gray and – once again – wished he hadn't. A spike seemed to be driving itself into his skull, and the light was the hammer. Groaning, Rodney rolled himself onto his side while digging the heel of his hands into his eye sockets. Then he lay there for several minutes, just breathing.

 _Ronon, howling, dropping, yelling, gunfire..._ It all rushed into Rodney's brain like a flood, and pain or no pain, he snapped his eyes open.

He was in a forest, a gray, dimly lit forest heavy with leaves, moss, mushrooms, loam, and absolute quiet. Not a bird sang, not even a single leaf rustled. Panic found a foot hold, and scrambled into Rodney's conscious. He struggled into an upright position on trembling arms and glanced around.

Quiet, empty... Rodney didn't mind solitude but this wasn't natural, and a lonely feeling was starting to creep up on him. To call out or not to call out, that was his real dilemma. Howls still clattered around in his skull, and he didn't trust his own voice even at a whisper at the moment. So he kept searching.

Finally, the unwanted solitude increased his terror. He cleared his aching throat, and opened his mouth.

" R-Ronon?" Timid, way too timid, like the voice of a four year old little girl. Rodney grimaced and clenched his jaw, then coughed again and sucked in a deep breath as far as his sore chest would allow.

" Ronon! Teyla!" Cracked, pathetic, but a step up from before. No answer followed, neither human or creature, so nothing to get happy or worried about yet. Rodney reached out to the nearest tree and used it as support for making the arduous climb to his feet. The world danced, spun, his legs shook, and pain pulsed through him. But he pushed through it all until he was standing with knees locked.

" Ronon! Teyla!" Much better this time, enough to have him wincing at its amplitude. Anyone and anything could have heard it.

Still no answer. Time for another tactic.

" Um... Sheppard!" He could only hope John's form resembled nothing of an erak.

A twig – more like a branch the way it resounded – snapped somewhere close by. Rodney craned his neck to look over the shrubs and clinging ferns.

" Ronon?" His voice was back to being a squeak. " Sheppard?" He shrank shivering against the tree, and flinched when another twig broke. " Anyone?"

Leaves rustled and crunched. A low, gutteral growl had Rodney's heart shooting straight to his mouth.

" Oh no," he choked, pressing further against the tree. The shrubs parted when a massive, ugly, bulky body stepped through. The erak slowed with lips pulled back from blood-stained teeth when its yellow eyes met Rodney's terrified blue ones. Rodney was positively oozing fear with each drop of sweat. He could have sworn the erak was smiling.

It stalked toward Rodney, crouching for the pounce, when a dark form dropped down from the trees to land right on top of the erak's back. A snarling, ripping, roaring frenzy erupted as the two creatures whipped around eachother, tearing and biting with blood flying. Then the new comer kicked the creature back and reached down, yanking out a knife. The two threw themselves at eachother. The erak shrieked, howled and went limp. The new comer dropped the carcass and pulled the knife from the thick throat. The creature wiped the knife off on familiar looking BDUs, then sheathed it, and turned to Rodney.

Rodney slid down the tree and shrank back when the creature slunk near. It grabbed Rodney by the collar of his jacket, and tugged, hoisting him easily and quickly to his feet. It then grabbed his shoulders, spun him around, and lightly butted him in the back with its horned head. Rodney stumbled forward several steps, and would have fallen if the creature hadn't caught him by the back of the jacket. It kept butting him onward, through the obstacles of the forest, never letting him fall, until he finally tumbled out into a clearing and a wide, pact dirt road.

Rodeny whirled around drunkenly to see the creature stepping out with him. Instead of proceeding with more head-butting, it sat back on its haunches, panting, allowing Rodney his very first good look.

BDUs, black long sleeved shirt, it could only spell...

" Sheppard?"

The creature regarded McKay with bright, solid eyes the color of hematite – silvery but somewhat prismatic. Rodney had to admit, it wasn't an ugly form to behold. Lithe as a whip, with small, polished scales, and gray and black coloring. It was the spikes, the claws, the horns, and those whip-like whiskers that kept a good few feet of space between Rodney and John. The blood dripping down the flanks, the arms, neck, head, and back through tears in the shirt and scales had Rodney moving a few steps closer.

" Um... Y-you okay?"

Blood dripped onto the road in soft pats like first rain. The creature – John – shook his head like a dog ridding its coat of water, red water. He rose to his feet effortlessly, moved up to Rodney, sat back on his haunches, and lifted a claw to point down the road.

" _Goooo_ ," he hissed. He rose again, and positioned himself behind Rodney. Rodney didn't give him a chance for another head-butt. He lifted both hands and staggered forward.

" All right, all right, I'm going! Jeez, Colonel, I don't which is worse. You as a human or you as a... thing."

John responded with a quiet hiss. He was keeping pace alongside Rodney. Even on all fours, the long limbed creature was still tall, coming up to Rodney's waist. When Rodney wavered and stumbled, John moved in closer to give the physicist something to collide into and keep upright.

Rodney felt as though he'd been shucked down the rabbit hole, landing right where the jabberwockies crept and sadistic chess pieces formed alliances. Sheppard probably would have loved the analogy, but McKay had lost the will (more like the nerve if he were being truthful with himself) to verbally engage with jabberwocky John in any form or fashion. He wanted to though, and kept swallowing, clearing his throat, and opening his mouth without a word to show for it. John showed no indications of noticing this discomfort. He stayed in creature mode, keeping pace with Rodney like a faithful mutt. McKay was ready to request John go back to his old, cocky, mouthy human self, but the soft pat of dripping blood gave him second thoughts.

Creature mode was the only thing keeping John going, if Rodney interpreted Weir's retelling of John's tale correctly. Three days of monster madness had left him out for three days once back in his natural body. There had to be something to that, and McKay was probably safe in assuming that once Sheppard was back in his normal skin, Rodney would be the one forced to provide physical support in dragging John's scrawny hide back to the gate – where ever the gate was. Rodney had to wonder if they were even on Sriot anymore.

The absolute silence was killing Rodney more so than the pains of his body. He forced himself to form articulate words, coming up with something he hoped wouldn't have Sheppard hissing in annoyance.

" You – uh – wouldn't, by any chance, know where Teyla and Ronon are, would you? Maybe this is just me being optimistic for once, but I was kind of hoping we were just separated, and that some of us weren't – you know – _eaten_."

The reply wasn't a hiss, but John clapping his jaws, then jerking his head up in indication of the way ahead. Or, at least, that was how Rodney translated the action. Sheppard might have just been flicking a bug off his snout.

" Um... okay..." Rodney was really starting to miss human Sheppard. He needed banter, he needed an argument, he needed to let off some steam and terror, but he sure as hell wasn't about to take anything out on the clawed creature beside him. Rodney had to bite back the request for regular Sheppard.

Suddenly, John stopped, and held out a clawed hand in front of Rodney. Rodney staggered to a halt, heart hammering, and eyes darting around wildly.

" W-w-what?"

John lifted his snout in the air and sniffed. Leaves hissed, branches snapped, and Ronon stepped out from the concealment of a bush. One hand gripped a Genii gun, the other hand was against his chest with blood dripping from the ripped sleeve of his jacket. Rodney nearly slumped to the ground in relief.

" Oh thank goodness. What the hell happened! Where were you? I thought..."

" We got separated," Ronon cut in. His answer was for Rodney, but his eyes were fixed on Sheppard. " After the erak attacked. I managed to shoot it, but another one came. It was going for you so I got it to chase after me. It never attacked. Think I know why now. Sheppard?"

Sheppard made a sound like a low, gutteral purr.

" Where's Teyla?" Rodney asked next. More bush rustling and Teyla emerged bruised, a little bloody on the side of the face, but other wise fine.

" I am here. I found Ronon not too long ago. Eraks had pursued me as well, but..." she was also transfixed with Sheppard.

Sheppard didn't indulge in the gawking. He started moving again, seemingly with or without the team, but paused to look over his shoulder and hiss.

Rodney gulped. " I, uh, think he wants us to follow him."

They did so without question, because even as a creature John was still their leader. John took the lead like a bloodhound, sniffing the ground, then the air as he went.

" So that is his other form," Teyla remarked. She pursed her lips thoughtfully, arching her eyebrows. " It is... interesting."

" It's weird," Ronon growled.

" And it's Sheppard," Rodney said between clenched teeth, " so I'd be careful what I say. Just because he looks like some kind of animal, doesn't mean he's incoherent as one."

Teyla smiled. " I find nothing threatening about him. In fact, I feel quite safe."

Ronon sniffed. " As long as he remains on our side."

Rodney gaped at this. " What the hell is that supposed to mean! This is _John Sheppard_ we're talking about. Not counting the retrovirus, when _hasn't_ he been on our side? If you haven't noticed, the thing's – I-I mean man's - leaking vital fluids here, and he's leaking because he saved us. I really think he deserve a little slack, whatever skin he's in."

Although Rodney could see where Ronon was coming from. He trusted the Colonel, even in critter mode, but it was hard to see that critter as John, and that kept the mind reeling with numbing shock. But that same numb was what kept Rodney's head clear enough to prevent him from taking off at a run from something that under any other circumstance he should have been terrified of.

But Teyla was right. There was something safe about having a creature like the one leading them now having their backs. Like knowing one's house was safe thanks to the pack of pit bulls living in it.

" Do we even know where we're going?" Rodney finally asked. He'd been wanting to ask, just not to Sheppard.

" This road leads straight to the gate," Ronon explained.

" You sure?"

" Very." Then he smirked that wicked grin which always made Rodney's flesh goose-up. " I asked."

" Oh," Rodney said, blanching. " Good for you. Um... how much further?"

The answer to that came when Sheppard stopped, lowered his head, hissed, and bounded forward into a run that tore up the smooth dirt path. He rounded a bend, and soon after followed the sound of shouts, gunfires, roaring, and a few screams.

Grunting, Ronon took off, and Teyla took Rodney's arm to support him as they hurried along. When they rounded the bend, they came out into a field with the gate only meters away.

It was littered with five bodies weeping blood through neck wounds. Sheppard was on the DHD – literally - clinging to it as he dialed the gate. He looked up at the team's approach.

" _Run!"_ he barked. He hit the last symbol, and the gate flushed to life. The team broke into a faster dash, even Rodney as he shoved back the excruciating pain it caused. They could here shouts in the distance, howls, and the pop of gunfire. Sheppard remained perched on the DHD like a monkey as Ronon entered the IDC code.

The all clear was given, just as a piercing howl sounded. Rodney turned in time to see an erak charging toward them. Sheppard leaped from the DHD and collided with the creature. The two began tearing at eachother like rabid wolves, too wildly moving for Ronon to get a clear shot, and more eraks were coming.

" Move!" Ronon bellowed.

" But what about..." McKay tried to protest, but was hauled through the gate by Teyla.

They rode the wormhole home to stumble out the other side, Rodney almost dropping to his knees. Teyla moved him away from the gate, and no sooner had she hauled him to the left hand side of the chamber when two massive bodies came hurling through, the darker one colliding into the lighter, crashing to the floor, sliding, and still grappling. But John had managed to get the creature's throat into his maw, and he jerked his head back and forth – dog with a chew-toy style – until the neck snapped and blood sprayed like a fountain.

John dropped the limp body. Guns clacked as they shifted from the gate to the dark-scaled creature standing in a pooling puddle of blood. John cringed, crouching low with back curved and spikes standing on end. His mouth gaped open in a hiss as he slowly crept back to the other side of the room. When the wall obstructed him, he shrank back, hunkering against the smooth metal, painting it with blood from his own body. Soldiers converged on him, and Rodney didn't get what they were doing. This was Sheppard...

 _Duh, you moron, they don't know that!_ Realization and panic shot electric jolts through Rodney's systems. Forgetting the pain, he rushed forward, sliding to a halt across the slick floor and positioning himself between the soldiers and their physically altered and unrecognizable CO.

" Hey, hey, stop! It's Sheppard! This is Sheppard! Lower your guns now, you're freakin' him out."

Ronon and Teyla joined Rodney, allowing Rodney to turn and face the creature that was his friend. He held out both hands as one would to placate a spooked cat (which rarely worked in Rodney's experience). John hissed and bristled, but his focus was on the guns. It staggered Rodney, the clarity he saw in the metallic eyes. John was at the ready, ferocious as the cornered beast he was, but trying to fathom this new predicament, trying to understand why his own people were pointing guns at him.

" Sheppard?" Rodney said. " John?"

John looked at him, the panicked animal ferocity gone, the clarity more potent. He was questioning Rodney with look alone, asking him 'what the hell', and begging for help.

" John, just change. Just go back to human. They don't recognize you."

He could have sworn John was trembling. He looked from Rodney, to the soldiers, then back to Rodney. Rodney reached out tentatively and placed a hand on John's shoulder.

" Don't look at them, just look at me. They'll lower the guns once they know it's you. You know that."

John ponderously blinked, then collapsed into a heap. A hiss melted into a groan as the spike and scaled body eased into bloody flesh. John, human John, was lying on his side, wide-eyed and panting. He moved shaking arms beneath him, and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, tattered shirt hanging from him like loose skin, soaked and dripping a cocktail of blood and sweat. Rodney knelt beside him, Teyla crouching beside Rodney on the right. Rodney put his hand on Sheppard's shoulder, Teyla his back. He felt tremors, the heat of fevered skin through the tears of the shirt, the warmth of oozing blood, and the stickiness of drying blood.

John looked at Rodney, then down at his blood-stained hands. He curled his fingers into a fist so tight they shook, and blood oozed from between the fingers. " This," he said, and looked back at Rodney, " is why I don't like it." Then he tilted against the wall, and slid back down it onto his side.

TBC...


	28. The Truth About the Beast

Weir normally wasn't an impatient woman, but dire circumstances were shoving that normally positive trait from her, roping in the impatient. Most of the time she prided herself at being able to rein herself in enough to pace outside the infirmary doors until Beckett came out or a nurse said she could come in. But seeing as how no one had been shot or critically wounded, patience didn't grace her, and she went right in.

She saw Ronon and Teyla sitting on beds while being checked over by four nurses and Dr. Biro going between each. A peek to the left showed her a drawn privacy curtain and misshapen lumps of shadows her mind pieced together as two forms and a hospital bed – one form standing, the other sitting. Weir never took her eyes from that make-shift cubicle as she headed over to Ronon and Teyla. She finally had to peel away in order to face the two. Teyla was having a cut on her forehead cleaned, Ronon a nasty looking tear in his arm.

Teyla was the poster child for pre-topples into dream land. Ronon – surprise, surprise – looked pissed, and it was making the nurses nervous.

" What happened?" Elizabeth asked, and she chanced another glance over at the privacy curtain.

" Ambush," Ronon stated. " Went to Gen, came back, got jumped by Cys and Genii."

" We believe they were waiting for us," Teyla jumped in. " They stunned us and took us to another world. They were going to use us to exchange for the sil, then began torturing Dr. McKay and I... Mostly – Dr. McKay. Then Colonel Sheppard..."

" Kicked their ass," Ronon finished with a dark smirk.

" Precisely. He became the creature and..."

" Kicked their ass," he finished again. Of all earth expressions and swears, that one, Weir knew, had hit the top of the runner's list as being a favorite.

Teyla went on after giving Ronon an odd look. " He distracted the Cyladrans and Genii as we made our escape."

" Where are the Colonel and Rodney now?"

Ronon jerked his thumb over his shoulder. " Beckett took McKay somewhere," then he pointed forward, " Sheppard's in there."

Elizabeth looked back at the curtained off section ponderously. " Is there a reason he's been curtained off?"

Ronon shrugged. " I don't know. Maybe he's naked."

Teyla shot him a withering glare. " They did not strip off his clothes. He was reacting with agitation, and calmed only after the curtain was closed."

" Agitation?" Weir wanted elaboration.

" He wouldn't let people touch him," Ronon explained, " and kept trying to leave."

Curious, and nervous to an ill point, Elizabeth went hesitantly toward the curtained cubicle, and the closer she got, the clearer the raspy sound of fast panting breaths became. She stopped an inch from the curtain with arms folded tightly across her chest, and leaned in.

" Colonel Sheppard?"

One of the altered shadows moved, drawing a curtain aside enough for a strawberry blond head to poke through.

" Dr. Weir, it's okay to come in. All the activity was making Colonel Sheppard... um... a little difficult to manage."

When no retort or protest followed, Weir's curiosity overwhelmed her unease, and she stepped through the curtains. The nurse – who's tag said Kaylee Jones – went back to cleaning and swabbing the innumerable cuts and gashes on John's sides, back, and chest. Blood, dirt and sweat coated his upper body from waist to head like a sickeningly weak shadow of the day he came barreling through the gate shredded and wild. It jolted Elizabeth, making her heart stumble and her skin goose up. John was even panting as fast as he had that day, flanks rising and falling like a pumping bellows.

It must have been painful, or frightening, by the way the Colonel was gripping his knees tight enough to pull the knee-caps off. His back was ever so slightly bent like a spooked cat. A couple of minutes ago, that same back had been bristling with dagger-sharp spines.

Blood covered the Colonel's hands like gloves.

" Colonel?" Elizabeth asked, reaching out a tentative hand toward his shoulder.

" If you wanna talk, do it now, not much time left," John blurted, startling Elizabeth so that she snatched her hand back. Panic welled up in her like flooding water.

" What? Why?"

In answer, John pried his hand from his knee, grabbed Elizabeth's wrist, and placed her hand against his chest, over his heart.

" Feel that?"

Elizabeth's eyes went round. Shock wanted her to pull her hand away, but morbid fascination kept it in place. She wasn't a medical doctor so it wasn't as if she had a lot of experience with such things, but even she could tell that no human heart was meant to beat that fast. No wonder he was panting.

" Oh my gosh..."

John smiled an already wavering smile. " Yeah, see?" he talked fast to get the words out before the next much needed breath. " Get it? Massive - adrenaline rush. Unnatural – inhuman - I should be - passed out, at least that's - what Kaylee here - says... Already got blood out of me - to see what it is making me pump - away like a revving engine." John then started coughing. His hand, still gripping her wrist, was shaking. " Doesn't last - though so soon - I'll be out like a wraith's - prospective meal."

He released Elizabeth's wrist, but morbid fascination didn't want to quit, and her hand remained on the cold skin covering the out of control heart. But finally she did pull away when the horror of how impossible this heartbeat was supposed to be finally kicked in. Only rabbit and rat hearts beat that fast.

Elizabeth folded her arms back across her chest. " Well, I got the gist of what happened from Teyla and Ronon..."

The curtain parted enough for Beckett to walk in with lab coat on and stethoscope around his neck. John straightened.

" How's Rodney?"

Carson placed the scope in his ears. " Sedated for now so the nurses can get him cleaned up without a hassle. He's exhausted, a little dehydrated, and it's possible he might be sportin' a few cracked ribs, maybe another break in the arm. No concussion, though, lucky bugger, but his face is gonna hurt come mornin'." He put the listening end to John's chest, and immediately furrowed his brow. " Now that's bloody odd."

John smirked. Elizabeth could have sworn he was enjoying the mad cardiac rapidity as though it were his prized freak possession, only ever brought out to get people to 'ooh', 'ahhh' and gag on bile.

" Isn't - it though?" he panted. Carson quickly removed the scope, and seemed unable to do it fast enough.

" Very. You should be passed out. Kaylee, you get the blood?"

Kaylee nodded. " Gave it to Crystal to analyze."

Carson nodded. " Good, I'd like to take a wee peek. Too bad you can't bottle up what's burnin' through your veins, Colonel, because energy like that would come in a wee bit handy."

John's smile was gone with spittle flying from his mouth on each exhale. " Doc - I hate this - it's horrible."

Carson placed the scope on John's back. " You gettin' enough air son?"

" Oh I'm getting - plenty of air to resuscitate - ten people at once... But I won't stop - shaking and my head hurts and - ears hurt and - it's too freakin' - loud..." he gasped. " It's too noisy - in here doc... too many - people... smells, really - really smells..." something clattered too distant for anyone to react to except for John, who jumped high enough to almost slip from the bed. Carson caught his arm and steadied him as he readjusted himself. John, staring beyond Elizabeth to the curtain, swallowed and seemed to shrink back. " Too many - people... too many..."

Carson placed his hand on John's bare, dirty shoulder and squeezed. " Easy son, it's all right. It'll wear off soon and then you'll be able to rest."

" Can't you - sedate me?"

" I'd rather not. You're already saturated with chemical, I don't want to risk counter measures and have them tear you apart tryin' to battle for supremacy."

John chuckled unsteadily. " Sounds like - a good movie - doc."

Kaylee, who had completed the cleaning and had now moved on to stitching a few of the deeper gashes, started cussing vehemently when she went for a cut on John's heaving flank first. Carson put his other hand on her arm.

" Just wait until he's settled down. There aren't that many that need stitchin' anyways. Most are just minor cuts."

John's smirk returned. " Natural armor – doc - never become - a monster - without it."

" Aye, too true I suppose. You should lay down so you don't topple when this thing wears off."

Carson increased pressure against John's shoulder, and John complied by descending onto his right side and bringing his legs up onto the bed. The fast, deep inhalations had his ribs stretching his skin until it looked ready to rip. He closed his eyes in a drawn out blink, and on opening them turned them up to look at Elizabeth. Pain rippled through them, but not the physical kind.

" You need - to suspend - gate travel," he said.

Elizabeth hadn't expected him to say it, but neither was she surprised. " Do you really think it's come to that? Don't you think – you know – that your escape might have deterred the Cys and Genii from further attacks?"

John, twitching and shivering with chemical overload, shook his head. " No. Diavante's - a hell of a - lot scarier - than me. I might have - shaken them – but - no way are they - going to stop - not if they want - the sil that badly... And they - really want - it bad... Plus - I'm pretty sure - the Cys are used - to genetic freaks - seeing as how - Diavante's their choice - breeder of - _eraks_... There'll be - other traps – ambushes - and this serum - doesn't hold out - forever."

" John, we can't just close ourselves off just because two factions are after something that – once again – we possess. We didn't suspend travel when the Genii then the wraith attacked. John, we're not strangers to these types of situations..."

John lifted quaking hands to run up his face and then through his hair. " I didn't mean - indefinitely. I just - mean until - we resolve this."

" And how do we do that?"

John dropped his hands from his head and sighed unsteadily. " Two ways, actually. We hunt - down Diavante - and stop him... somehow. Or, we - destroy..." more pain flickered, " the sil."

It was Mathers, and halting the search for his body, all over again.

" Do you really think that would stop them?"

John shook his head. " No. With the sil – they'll just think we're - lying and - keep on coming. With Diavante – I don't know - how you - would get rid - of him. I mean how - do you get - rid of an - Ancient? Especially a - mutant one."

John's shivering died down to periodic shudders, and his eye lids were being stubborn about refusing to stay open. Beckett, always quick on the uptake, pressed his fingers to John's neck and melted in relief.

" Heart rate's goin' down," he announced. " Breathin' too."

Panting was switched into the gentle rise and fall of John's chest, and Kaylee jumped on the opportunity to start stitching up the deeper wounds. John didn't even twitch when the thread was inserted in and out of his flesh.

Elizabeth smiled and placed her hand on John's arm. " You ask an Ancient, John. I've been meaning to have a talk with Chaya. Maybe she could tell us something."

John nodded wearily as his eyelids slid shut. " Yeah... good plan... Say hi to her for me." His eyelids snapped shut, and his head sagged face-down into the mattress. Elizabeth, smiling, patted his arm.

" Will do." She looked up at Beckett. " He'll be all right, right?"

Beckett was already listening to John's heart with the stethoscope. " Oh, aye. That serum'll make sure of it and so will I."

Elizabeth nodded then stepped out from behind the curtain. Rodney was there, fast asleep with a blanket pulled up to his chest, wires and an IV drip snaking from him. His face was a mottled mess of bruises that had one eye swollen shut tighter than the other. His arm was bandaged, probably his chest too under the scrub. The Genii and Cys really knew how to lay into people. She went over to the physicist and put her hand on his shoulder, then chuckled when Rodney's mouth slacked enough to emit gentle snores. But it was a short lived laugh because nothing about any of this was funny.

It was creepy.

Having someone who harbored a tight friendship with an Ancient had its perks. John living up to his promise of visiting Chaya had allowed him closer landing proximity to the temple. Stackhouse set the jumper down in a field within sight of the temple and opened the hatch, but didn't accompany Weir. He didn't need to, not on this world. Elizabeth headed to the temple, and having never seen it before until now, was distracted by its simplistic beauty and the very mild temperature of the world. She wandered into the court, feeling awkward as a stranger trespassing because no one would answer the door.

" Chaya?" she called, unsure how John usually handled this.

" Dr. Weir."

Elizabeth whirled around with a thudding heart to see Chaya standing behind her, smiling warmly, but with perplexity.

" Dr. Weir. You come in place of John?"

Elizabeth grimaced apologetically. " Sort of. Colonel Sheppard isn't well, so wasn't able to come, or he would have been the one to arrive instead of me."

Chaya's smile faded. " Unwell? How?"

Again, Weir grimaced. " Well, not really unwell, more like exhausted. Chaya, I'm here to ask you about something. Well, actually, some _one_. Someone who has become a threat to us. I'm not here to ask for your help, this is just a simple inquiry I hope you can answer."

Chaya inclined her head. " Of course, Dr. Weir. Please, sit." Chaya moved to a stone bench, and Weir followed to sit beside the ascended Ancient. Then launched into the business at hand.

" Chaya, what do you know of a being known as Diavante?"

Chaya blinked at that, rearing her head back in alarm. " You've been having dealings with Diavante?"

" In a way. John has, but not by choice. More like chance, really. It's kind of a long story, one John would be better at telling since it's his story to tell. The short version is that this Diavante nearly killed John because John was trying to help a little girl escape from him. Now it seems Diavante has become a danger to all of Atlantis, and we would like to know what we're dealing with exactly. We know he is an Ancient, and attempted a form of ascension..."

Chaya's expression darkened, which took Elizabeth by alarm. " A mutilated attempt," Chaya said. " Diavante is no ascended. He is... nothing, nowhere, caught between one existence and another. I believe a good term to use would be one of your earth terms I came across when I studied your many religions; Cursed."

Elizabeth smiled. " Appropriate term. John said he was a scientist?"

Chaya nodded. " He was."

" Did you know him?"

" Of him. He was before my time. He was banished when his experiments turned cruel, destructive... Heartless. He would perform his experiments on living beings no matter what the outcome or the pain caused. He was said to be very obsessed. Discovery was more important than the lives cost to reach that discovery. Many have died under his experimentations. The final act to seal his fate was the destruction on an entire village through a virus he created, and expressed no remorse for. That was when he was sent away."

Elizabeth, wrinkling her brow, leaned forward with hands clasped and elbows on her knees. " Why hasn't he tried to return to Atlantis once it was evacuated?"

" Because he cannot. The symbols to press leading home were erased from his mind."

Elizabeth straightened. Now that explained a lot. Not everything, though.

" But he wants to return," Elizabeth said. " John said so. He says Diavante has the ability to enter the mind during sleep. The symbols would have been made known to him through John's dreams but Diavante has yet to come."

" Perhaps because he could not retrieve the symbols from John. I know of this ability you speak of. My people know of Diavante, even now. The ability to enter the subconscious mind exists, and the conscious mind of course, though we would never invade a person's conscious unless necessary. Diavante's ability to enter into the sleeping mind is a lesser form of both powers. He can read much in the unconscious, but not all. Even in sleep, control of one's own mind still exists in small ways. I know of the secrecy you keep concerning Atlantis' continuing existence, and that maintaining that secret is a matter of life and death for your people. And I know John. He puts the safety of the city and its people above himself. The strength of his resolve, I believe, is strong enough to keep even Diavante from discovering the symbols to Atlantis."

Elizabeth relaxed, until...

" But if others know the symbols," Chaya continued.

" Then Diavante could find out through them," Elizabeth finished.

" Yes. He was banished from Atlantis, not other planets."

Elizabeth huffed out a sharp breath. " Well, obviously he hasn't found anyone who knows the address as of yet, but they are out there. He's already organized two civilizations against us – the Cyladrans and the Genii. But... they were more interested in a device John kept Diavante from having than in Atlantis, so I suppose it's safe to assume they haven't been told Atlantis still exists..." she was talking more to herself than to Chaya, working things out loud. " What we're most worried about is this device, and Diavante giving it to our enemies. With it, should they discover Atlantis is still standing, they could get through our shield and take the city. Then there's Diavante himself and his interest to return to Atlantis. We know he's a danger, and has been, we just don't know his exact plans, or what to do about him. So far, he's been more inclined to make life difficult than be an out right threat."

Chaya nodded in understanding. " He is a danger to you, doctor Weir. As I have said, my people know of him in the now, because he is half ascended, and that has created a connection. But he is mad, very mad. He wants Atlantis for himself, to continue his experiments. However..." she trailed off into momentary thought. " I believe his unstable state has made him... unreliable to himself. Though his presence would keep the city alive, he would be unable to run it on his own. He would need others, preferably those loyal to him, those he could command, to aid him. I say this as speculation. We know him, but not his plans. The connection creates an awareness of him, but not a bond, so we cannot enter his mind as he cannot come to our plane. But we have always know of Diavante's need to return home, because it is part of what has driven him mad, and he will do whatever it takes to return now that he has the means."

Elizabeth slumped her shoulders at that statement. " Because of us. We brought forth the means."

Chaya smiled kindly at her. " Your presence has motivated him, but he has yet to retrieve the address through you."

" But others know of the address because of us..."

" Which means you have a chance to stop Diavante once and for all."

" Why haven't your people done so?"

" Because, though there is a connection, he is not one of us, and we cannot interfere."

Elizabeth's thoughts strayed back to the whole Anubis incident. Kind of Ascended, kind of not, so not in a position to be dealt with by actual Ascended, and the one Ascended that tried – one Daniel Jackson – got himself back handed (as it were) back to mortality.

Anubis had been next to impossible to defeat, and if Diavante were the same... Elizabeth shuddered.

" How do you get rid of something like Diavante?" she asked. " How are we supposed to defeat him?"

Chaya shrugged. " You have weapons."

Elizabeth started at that, blinking several times. " W-what. Weapons?"

" Yes, like what John carries. Diavante may be partially Ascended and immortal, but his experiments with the structure of living beings has made him more... vulnerable, than he once was, though he does not seem to realize this."

Elizabeth gaped. " So... he can be killed?"

" If he takes a more solid form, then yes, quite easily. Though some of his structure is that of wraith, and were he to absorb the energy of another living being, he would heal. Other than that, he can be destroyed."

Elizabeth had to clasp her hands together to keep from throwing her arms around Chaya in an embrace. She let out a slow breath of sweet relief.

" Chaya, you've just made my day. And John's too, as soon as I get back. And he wanted me to tell you 'hi', by the way."

Chaya smiled at this, and blushed.

SGASGASGASGA

John kept the sil to him, pressed to his chest, body curved over it in a protective crouch, alone in the darkness.

He looked imploringly up at Krissa. She was crying, with hands clasped before her. Each tear was a knife to the heart.

" I have to."

She sniffed. " I know."

Cold brushed against his back, ice crept down his spine, and oh how he wanted to vomit. Instead, he choked out a sickened cough and shivered.

John shook his head. " I'm sorry," tears burned his eyes, " I'm so sorry."

Krissa wiped her own eyes with her sleeve. " I know. Lesser of two evils, Mr. Sheppard? Do what you have to."

John did. He pulled the sil away from himself, lifted it high with both hands, and brought it down hard onto the invisible ground. It shattered like glass, millions of shards raining down in glittering dust with no fragments left to hold.

When John looked up, Krissa was gone.

John's eyes snapped open, and even in the darkness he saw the curtains drawn away, and Rodney lying in the bed across the way. Heart monitors were going, harshly loud to John's now overly sensitive ears. Hunger struck his awareness second, an annoying pang, but nothing up to par with the desperate hunger that had plagued him previously. He could ignore it this time. There were more important matters.

He reached out, clicked off the monitor, and removed the pads from his chest. Then he slid from the bed as his form slipped into critter-mode, spikes ripping through a fresh scrub shirt. Beckett would be upset – or would he? Probably not around John, not any more. Stupid anti-normalcy (if such a word existed. It should if it didn't.)

With a quiet hiss, John slipped low across the floor, out the infirmary, and straight to the lab. Same old, same old, only the second time around, and John felt as though he had been doing it forever. He knew where the sil was, in a lock box on the table at the far end. He retrieved the box, holding the handle in his mouth, and slunk back to the infirmary. Safety there. More people. Jumper would be better, but a more human instinct didn't want to alarm Beckett with his absence.

He entered the infirmary with the doors sliding closed behind him, and froze.

Beckett was there, standing by the bed, facing John just as frozen. The color went fast from the Highland doc's face, like the plug being pulled from the drain. The two stared at each other without so much as a muscle twitching or eyes blinking. Beckett broke the stillness with an audible gulp, and took a step back. John caught the whispered 'bloody hell'.

Knife to the heart. John didn't like Beckett's fear. It was wrong. Moving slow, he slunk to the left, toward the wall, keeping a good couple of feet between him and Carson. Once at the wall, John set down the box to pick it up with his hands, and as he shifted in a turn to sit against that wall, his form coalesced back into human, bringing the box to his chest and drawing his knees up. He avoided looking at Beckett as he pressed in the key-code for the box. It clicked, he opened it, and removed the sil, setting the box to the side. The sil he held protectively to his chest.

" S-sorry doc," John said, and swallowed back the suffocating lump in his throat. " Sorry you had to see that."

He heard footsteps, and looked up in time to see Beckett coming toward him, then sitting down next to him against the wall, also with knees drawn up, and hands draped casually over them. Fear – scent and sight – were absolutely gone.

" No bother, laddie. You startled me is all." He looked at John up and down. " You all right then? Physically I mean. Any pain?"

John shook his head. " Nope. Well, soreness, and I could go for a couple of cheeseburgers right now, and I emphasize 'couple'. But seriously, I've been worse."

Carson snickered. " No arguments there. Just out of curiosity, what possessed ya to change?"

John shrugged and looked down at the sil, rubbing it along its now clean side. " Bad dream." He stopped rubbing to hold it tight with both hands. " I suggested destroying it, and that scared the hell out of me. I mean it's not like it's really mine to destroy. Actually, it's not mine to destroy, it's Krissa's. But seeing as how we haven't found her yet, it's not like we can ask her 'hey, can we smash the thing that took you a month to build?' Of course, that'd be a hard question even if she were here." He lifted the sil to hold it out before him, arms resting on his knees. He turned it, and in the dusky light of the infirmary the dark surface reflected iridescent colors. John had never noticed that before. Beauty in the darkness after all.

Carson leaned a little to the side to join in the observation. " Well, far be it from me to be playin' Heightmeyer, but seein' as how this Krissa lass built that bit of metal and circuits, of course it'd be hard to part with it. I always say a bit of you goes into whatever you create with your own hands, and the longer it takes, the more of you goes in. That bit wasn't just made by the lass, part of it _is_ the lass. Little of her heart and soul. So of course it's a task, wantin' to destroy it. You'd be a heartless bugger if it didn't get to ya in some way."

John pulled the sil in, and hugged it against his chest. Never in his life would he have admit to projecting, but Beckett did a good Heightmeyer, because he was right. He'd failed Krissa, and all he had left to protect of her was the sil. But hey, piece of metal and circuits as it was, he'd guard it with heart, soul, fang, claw, gun, C-4 and whatever else he had.

He felt Beckett's fingers slide beneath his bicep and grip, then tug. " Come on, lad. Back to bed. I'll see if I can't scrounge ya up somethin'. It ain't that late for a good meal."

He guided John, still hugging the sil, back to the bed. John handled getting back in himself, and Beckett didn't bother attaching the heart monitor. No need to, really. John looked over at Rodney as Beckett adjusted the covers.

" He okay?"

Carson glanced at Rodney. " Aye. He'll be fine. A few cracks, sprains, but no worse than that, though'll he'll be hurtin' for a bit. Let me go talk to the nurse, then I'll see about gettin' the food."

Beckett stepped away. Minutes later, he was out the infirmary doors. John settled back against the upturned head of the bed, loosening his hold on the sil to lower it to his lap. He tilted his head back to look up at the shadow-hidden ceiling. Time held no existence for him, but when the doors next opened, he jumped all the same, because it was too early for Beckett to be back.

He relaxed on seeing Elizabeth, and her face that was all smiles.

" John," she said with a nod of greeting. " Beckett said you had a little night time romp."

John narrowed his eyes. " Did he now?"

Elizabeth, still grinning, shook her head. " No, but that," she gestured at the sil, " was kind of a giveaway, and what you said just confirmed it. So I guess this means you're feeling better?"

John lifted one shoulder. " A little. I'm tired, but I'm starved, and they say you should never sleep on an empty stomach."

" Who's they?"

" Most likely my mom, but usually because I didn't clean my plate since I wanted to go out and play or something."

" Hell raiser even then?"

John made his eyes go heavy lidded. " I prefer the term 'exceedingly active'."

Weir chuckled. " Sorry."

John tilted his head to one side in curious regard. " Why are you all sunshine and daisies? You and Chaya exchange a little something about me?"

" Info was shared, but not about you. Well, nothing incriminating that would have you burying your head in the sand for months. Chaya had nothing but good things to say. And speaking of good, my little visit paid off. Chaya knew quite a bit about your Diavante."

John pushed himself up straighter at this. " Yeah?"

" Yeah. It seems that – despite Diavante's immortal nature – he's not all that immortal. He can be killed."

" How?"

" Use your imagination. Guns, knives, whatever and however you want. All his years of genetic tampering gave him the nasty side affect of being susceptible to harm."

" Which leaves us where?"

Elizabeth folded her arms and shrugged. " You tell me. But, if you want to some how go after Diavante himself, it's a possibility."

John nodded numbly as plans shot through his brain faster than he could sort them. Plans on drawing Diavante out, of trapping him, of somehow getting him to relent and back off. Anything to get him out of the way and continue the search for Krissa unhindered. He almost drooled at the prospect as though it were food.

When he next looked at Elizabeth, her smile was gone.

" John, just remember, even if we get rid of Diavante, that may not stop others from coming after us to get the sil. Even if the belief that Atlantis is gone still holds, others – especially the Cys – will see our possession of it as a threat, and do what it takes to get it away from us. That could cause future problems for future missions, even bigger problems if the wraith get wind of this. That little device is more trouble than we can imagine."

John gripped the sil tight with one hand as though Weir's words had insulted it. " But you know?" he said. " I don't think destroying it would solve the problem, because no one would believe us when we tell them it's gone – unless we make the destruction a public display. Know how to do that?"

Weir shook her head. " No. But we need to think of something. Chaya told me something else, something that's been making me nervous. She talked to me about Diavante's desire to return to Atlantis. She told me that though he could keep the city alive, he would need others to help him run it, others loyal to him. It got me thinking..."

John stiffened as epiphany smacked him upside the head with an aluminum baseball bat. He'd had it right the first time. " Loyal or at least easy to control. Crap, that's it! That's why he wants the sil. He can get through, but others wouldn't be able to. He needs it to send an army through and take Atlantis, cause like hell we'd be loyal. He probably figured that the first night he broke into my brain. He really is going to fork Atlantis over, bring an army..."

Oddly enough, it seemed more of a relief that John had figured it out than a shock, and he sagged against the bed. It was like when he'd been at Diavante's before discovering Diavante's secret, and Savine's ability, when all he had were noises and a foe without a face and body to shoot. When the enemy was made manifest, John was able to figure out what to do (major bust though it was). If all that John had speculated was true, then all that needed to be done was to take Diavante out of the picture.

And what was that old Earth Idiom? Cut the head off the snake, and the body will die. Without Diavante to lead the charge through the gate and keep the city going, the endeavor would be pointless.

The question was, who was Diavante going to lead? It couldn't be both the Genii and the Cys. Each side had a tendency not to share. It probably didn't matter who Diavante's army was. Then again, maybe it did matter. But one step at a time.

" We need to kill Diavante."

TBC...


	29. Bait

" What do you propose?" Weir asked.

John ripped into the MRE Beckett had tossed him. No home cooked meals tonight. The kitchen had been closed, and Carson refused to play at being a chef. John wisely kept his mouth shut concerning the Scot's ability with pots and pans, and a little dish known as haggis (although in John's current hunger state, stuffed animal innards didn't sound too bad.)

John dug through the packet until he pulled out – to his ultimate joy – a turkey sandwich. " Draw him out, shoot him down," John said, and took the biggest bite of sandwich his mouth would allow.

" Care to elaborate on that?"

John chewed as quickly as he could and swallowed. " What more is there to elaborate on? We set up a trap. Maybe send the message that we'll hand over the address to Atlantis if he lets us stay here in return. Give him the address to the alpha site instead, have a few men standing by," John shaped his thumb and fore-finger into gun semblance, " and blast his smoky hide."

Weir cocked both eyebrows in that skeptical way of hers that tended to tear at John's nerves. " And you think he'll just buy it?"

Crap if she didn't have a point there. Diavante might have been psychotic, but he wasn't stupid. Then again, obsession and desperation tended to drop IQ points.

" If he's so hell bent on getting Atlantis, then I wouldn't hold it past him. Besides, if that doesn't work, we could always use his need for the sil to our advantage. Not to jump to conclusions, but I get the strong vibe that Diavante is as clueless to Krissa's where abouts as we are. _However_ , he probably doesn't know that we know he doesn't have Krissa. We could set up an exchange – the sil for Krissa – then blast him to kingdom come."

" And if he does have her?"

John paused en route to his second bite, then slowly backed his head away from the sandwich. " He doesn't," and never had the words sounded so sure, even to himself, and lacking the proof to back the conviction. Logic, however, had his back. " If he had Krissa, he'd be using her as a bargaining chip right now. Plus... I think her father might be keeping her hidden. Not that he told me outright. Just a feeling I got." He finally took the next bite, and never had dehydrated, processed turkey tasted so good.

Still, a cheeseburger would have really hit the spot.

Elizabeth pursed her lips in thoughtful rumination. " If we could come up with a more formal plan – maybe several..."

John grinned before taking his next bite. " Plan A through Z..."

" Exactly. But I have the feeling that if plan A's a screw up, then plan B and C aren't going to go off very well with Diavante having wind of what we're up to. So whatever we plan, it should be with the thought in mind that we may only get one shot at bringing Diavante down. Think on it tonight, then we'll talk about it in the morning."

John nodded. " Will do."

With a smile, Elizabeth patted John's shoulder before heading out of the infirmary.

Once out of sight, John scarfed the rest of the sandwich down in several massive bites, followed it up with a smaller pouch of dried fruit, a brownie, then a carton of juice Carson had tossed to him along with the packet. He stuffed the garbage into the empty packet, and flinched at another packet landing on his lap.

" Eat up, son, I know you're wantin' it."

John looked up at Carson to smile, but the smile was halted at the sight of what Beckett had in his hands.

Clothes, normal, everyday, honest to goodness clothes; black sweat pants and a dark gray T-shirt to be exact. When John looked up at Carson, he caught the Doc's poor attempt at looking stern.

" Don't think this a regular privilege, Colonel. But seein' as how you've temporarily obtained the skill of quick healin', you've no reason to be in the infirmary, and I could use the extra bed."

Like extra beds were ever really a problem except on the exceedingly bad days, but John held his tongue by biting it, and snatched the clothes before Carson could change his mind.

" Thanks doc," and John scurried from the bed.

" Just get plenty of rest and eat that food, then stop by in the mornin' before goin' to meet Weir."

John nodded, yanking off the tattered scrub shirt, pulling the warm gray shirt over his head, snatching up the sil, then already heading out the infirmary to deal with the sweats in his room. " Will do doc."

He couldn't reach his room fast enough, slip into the sweats fast enough, or down the second turkey sandwich fast enough (though the latter he tried to savor). Back in his own room, surrounded by his own junk – John wanted to ponder this shift of fortune, but the lesser adrenaline critter-mode had brought about was leaking faster than the adrenaline of agitated critter-mode. He polished off the second MRE, then crawled beneath the softer, warmer covers of a softer, more tolerable bed, curling up like a cat around the sil nestled protectively against his chest. The moment he was in position, he was out with one final exhale of contentment.

SGASGASGASGA

Rodney was going to puke. He felt cold, every inch of him, but mostly at his back, and slick as though he'd been drenched in a rain of oil. Sweat, grime – that had to be it. He'd never gotten a proper shower, probably just a wipe down that did little but grind in what was already there. But to be cold – now that was just ridiculous.

 _And is someone touching me? Oh gosh! They're giving me a sponge bath!_ He squirmed, writhed, tried to move an arm to smack the busy hands away, but his sluggish, stubborn body refused to cooperate.

Rodney moaned. " Get... the hell... away... from... me." Every word spilled from his mouth a drunken, useless slur. As though to retaliate, the busy hands became busier, probing ice-cold along his skin, down his back, in his head...

 _What the hell?_

" _Where is it!"_

The shriek pierced his brain like shards of glass, and Rodney's eyes snapped open, his lungs sucking in air in one, ragged pull. Hands gripped his shoulders like a vice.

" Rodney? Rodney! Lad, you with me?"

Rodney, gasping like a suffocating fish, darted his eyes frantically around until they landed on the concerned features of Beckett. The highland doctor's face grounded him, and he exhaled sharply.

" Ah crap, nasty dream. And who the hell gives sponge baths to unconscious men? What kind of establishment are you running here? Or are your nurses so bored they'll get whatever kicks from whatever source they can?"

Beckett's brow wrinkled. " Rodney, what the bloody hell are you talkin' about? It's three in the bloody mornin'. No one's about to give ya sponge baths. The monitor was goin' off the deep-end and the on-duty nurse about had a panic attack seein' it. Said you were spikin' a fever." Carson's cool hands felt along Rodney's forehead. " Which I'm inclined to agree with." He then turned and brought up the dreaded ear-thermometer. Rodney winced and scowled as his temperature was taken.

" Not too bad, not at a hundred, but a wee bit high. What were you dreamin' about?"

Rodney huffed out a breath. " Sponge baths."

Carson raised an eyebrow. " Really? By an ugly nurse or somethin'?"

Rodney rolled his eyes at that. " No! I didn't see any faces. I just felt hands, fingers, I don't know... all over me. And if you haven't already noticed, I'm not generally the touchy-feely type, Dr. Demented, so keep that in mind when the subject of needing to give me a _real_ sponge bath comes up. Pretty nurse or not, _it's humiliating_. Even Sheppard agrees with me on that, pretty nurse or not..." Rodney shivered when cold remnants radiated from his spine.

" You cold lad?" Carson asked.

" A little? What temperature do you keep it on in here?"

" The right temp to keep patients from freezin'. Might be your fever." Carson took Rodney's temperature again, despite loud protests. But the perplexed look on Carson's face on reading the digital readout had Rodney clapping his jaw shut quick.

" What? Was is it? I am getting sick, aren't I? Oh gosh..."

Carson shook his head numbly. " No, not at all. If anythin', it's gone back down to normal temperature. Huh..."

Rodney pulled the blankets up to his chin. " Maybe that thing's busted." His eyes strayed past Carson to the rumpled blankets of an empty infirmary bed. " Where's Sheppard. He run off?"

Carson, still preoccupied with the thermometer, shook his head no. " I let him sleep in his own room. Not like I need him monitored the way he's been healin'."

" Sure that's wise?"

Carson set the thermometer back on the tray. " Colonel's a big lad, he can take care of himself."

To that, after a long, drawn out yawn, Rodney replied, " You're getting soft, Beckett. Sheppard gets a slight sniffle and you have him in scrubs. His less than better half wouldn't have anything to do with it, would it?"

Carson shoved his hands into the pockets of his (Rodney now noticed) Navy blue sweat pants and shrugged. " A bit. But not in the way ya think! This is a strange time for the man, and I just thought he'd be more comfortable in his own quarters. In all truth, if he didn't need monitorin' so much, I'd release him every time he was sick or injured. Stress doesn't do right to the body, and healin' would have a better chance if John were left with a wee bit of privacy. He ain't one for lookin' weak, and ya can't help lookin' weak and helpless in a hospital bed with plenty of souls seein' it in plain view." He then thumped Rodney lightly on the shoulder. " If only a few others I know of carried at least a smidgen of that trait."

Rodney bristled at this. " Hey! I've got a need to maintain dignity. But not at the price of losing my life, unlike certain head-in-the-clouds-literally Colonels we know."

Carson, patting Rodney on the shoulder now before turning to go, chuckled. " I've no doubt about that. Rest up, lad. And no more sponge-bath dreams."

Rodney hunkered down deeper into the bed. " Just don't get any ideas about real sponge baths."

Carson shook his head as he moved to the infirmary doors. They slid open, just as an agonized scream ripped the silence a new one.

SGASGASGASGA

Cold. John was so cold.

" _Give it to me, John."_

Ice slid over him, like oil, like fingers, caressing, petting, probing his brain, gliding down his spine.

" _Give it to me, and I will go... forever... You will never know of me again."_

The concentration of ice altered to crawl methodically over his ribcage, slowing, slowing - the left ribcage – creeping like snakes toward his heart. Mobility was sorely missed. All John could do was curl tighter and tighter into himself, coiling and wrapping as much as his bones would allow. Cold traveled down both arms, slick as oil, to the smooth metal clutched in a death grip.

" _Give it to me John..."_ The tendril was inches away from his panicking heart. " _Just give it to me. I will go away, forever. I will never hurt you again."_

John's breathing matched his heart, but he couldn't curl any tighter. He was already a shivering, pathetic mass of human flesh, moaning and begging for deliverance, pleading his relentless tormentor away.

" _I will never hurt Krissa..."_

Krissa.

 _You don't have Krissa._

" _I will find her."_

 _You can't._

" _Your friends. Must I harm them?"_

 _No! Leave them alone!_

" _Devour them... slowly. Absorb them... until there is nothing left._

 _No!_

" _Give it to me John, and I will go away."_

John panted faster, his heart slamming harder. _You're supposed to die._

Laughter, dry and cold as deep space. " _You can try."_

Cold stopped an inch away from John's heart, the residue of it wafting in thread-like tendrils to brush the pulsating organ. It hurt, bad, and that was only a taste. More cold continued its trek over the hands to touch the sil.

A sudden onrush of protective instinct had John pulling so fast and abruptly that the next thing he knew his stomach dropped in the sickening rush of weightlessness, stopping abruptly when his body thudded hard and painfully against something solid. The same instant the breath was shoved from his lungs, his eyes popped open to solid, impenetrable darkness. The cold reached out for him with proximity revealed through more thread-sharp tendrils of arctic air. John scrambled back with the sil clutched in one shaking hand. His back hit hard against the wall, and the darkness rose up, forming like a black hole right in Sheppard's room.

John lurched sideways, toward his bed, hand diving under the pillow and emerging with 9-mil in hand. He whipped his arm around to point the gun at the mass, only to have a solid tentacle of ice whack it from his hand. Another tentacle shot out quick as a striking cobra to wrap around John's neck. A third went around the wrist holding the sil. The fourth punched into his shoulder. Cold raced through him like knives, shredding veins and nerves into confetti. John screamed a scream that tore his throat and constricted his lungs.

" Give it to me!" Diavante's voice rumbled deep as thunder and nearly imperceptible - the reason for speaking through dreams.

John, his mind a numb haze, could only form the single coherent thought of 'protect the sil'. He couldn't clutch it any harder, only hold it to himself. The tentacle around his throat tightened, pulling his head forward, then with one massive thrust that took little effort, slammed his head back against the wall. There was a crunch, and stars flecked John's vision graying on the edges.

" Give it to me!"

John gagged, chocked, and wheezed. He couldn't form words or even shake his head. He just held on with everything he had left.

Distantly, like noises in a dream, he heard pounding, and the sound of his name in words altered by an accent. John would have loved to have choked out a laugh of relief had he room in his throat. Diavante didn't even give him that much when he lifted John by his neck and tossed like a piece of trash into the wall on the other side of the room. John's efforts to cling to the sil failed when on impact his elbow rammed the obstruction and the sil flew from his hands. John crumpled, the sil rolled away, and Diavante snatched it up.

The mass darker than the darkness flowed like water to the door – and thought it open.

John shook the film from his head in time to see it happen, and curled his fingers in rage.

 _Hell no!_ Critter-mode flowed over him, and he scrambled to all fours, tearing into the hallway with a shriek, passed a panicked Beckett and gaping contingent of Marines.

John took notice of no one say for the writhing mass that was Diavante. Icy pain burned his shoulder where no blood dripped and no wound gaped. It hindered him, that pain, so he pushed it to the back where it belonged. He was gaining fast on Diavante, until Diavante shifted form to become John's shadow doppelganger, and increased speed.

They tore through the corridors, straight into the control room, and on reaching the stairs Diavante leaped up, whipped around, and round-house kicked John in the face, sending him flying into the wall. Again, the haze tried to play havoc with his conscious, then alarms blared, and the haze cowered back when super adrenaline rushed in ten fold. John skittered to his feet and tore into the control room. The techs and guards on duty were unconscious. John looked up toward the gate already congealing back down into a rippling pool of interstellar liquid, and Diavante was floating ever so casually toward it. Bristling, snarling, John tore out of the control room.

His mind worked fast. Diavante was moving slow. Stopping. Hovering, waiting. Sil visible. What is he waiting for? Oh crap, it's a trap!

John skidded to a halt, but not soon enough, and not far enough. Diavante lashed out a smoky tentacle, latching it around John's neck, then gave one massive yank, hurling him through. John rode the wormhole through time and space, and came tumbling out the other side, over dirt and grass, rolling and skipping like a stone over water.

When he finally stopped, and the world ceased spinning, John moved swiftly back to all fours. He was immediately impaled through the back by ice, pinned to the ground, writhing, shrieking and clawing the earth. His monster form dissolved, and animal screams became human screams. He screamed until his lungs were empty, and the cold consumed him, numbing him until he couldn't move. Only then was the ice spike removed. Panting, John's mind begged, cajoled, even threatened his hand to move and feel the assaulted spot on his back, right on his spine, so much like a Cy stunner, but long, lingering and agonizing.

Diavante's mass flowed before John until it filled John's vision. The cold came off of that mass in suffocating waves, rolling over John until his shivering forced his teeth to chatter. Antarctica had nothing on this piece of sub-zero nothing.

The sil dropped before John, right within reach, if his body would only move. John coughed, which only did to make his lungs burn.

" You like toying with your food before you eat it?" John rasped. It hurt to breathe, and it was agony to speak. He winced, and groaned, which drew Diavante closer. John had no doubts he would die of hypothermia before the day, night, whatever, was out. By the gray surrounding John, he assumed it to be nearing morning - where ever he was.

John heard a low, rhythmic rumble. Diavante was chuckling.

A tentacle wrapped around John's throat and bent his neck back, getting John to look up. Dark as the mass was, John could have sworn he saw, deeper within it, like deja vu, the shape of a face, a body.

" Yeeessss," the voice rumbled so deep it made John's bones vibrate. He shuddered. Then, suddenly, Diavante started to move, dragging John along by the neck over dewy grass and moist earth. They entered a forest, a deep, mossy, uneven forest with hidden rocks, mounds, and branches. Diavante dragged John over it all until they came to a small clearing. Here, the Ancient released John to remain immobile on the spongy ground. But John had gotten back the use of his now sore neck, and craned it to gather in his surroundings.

Twigs snapped, pine needles and leaves crunched, all around John, echoing sharp as a bullet. Forms emerged spirit-like from the concealment of thin wisps of mist. The forms didn't ring any bells, but the uniforms certainly did. Genii on one side, Cys on the other. Menk was there and – all hell breaking loose indeed – Koyla. The wraith, all they needed was the wraith, and John would have burst out in hysterical laughter. Thankfully for his already frayed sanity, no wraith. The two groups formed a circle around the clearing where John lay and Diavante hovered. They were all armed, and all smirking, Koyla and Menk especially.

 _Crap, just bring in a couple of erak and Culs, and I can slip blissfully into dillusion-ville thinking all this is a dream._

Culs was next to emerge, holding back two eraks on a chain leash, ever so reminiscent of the ones that had held him and Mathers. That was it, the grand finale, the final thread to be cut. John laughed a painful, breathy laugh that ended up morphing into an even more painful cough. Oh mercy how he was screwed.

A cold tentacle of ice grabbed his head and forced his jaw up toward Diavante's... upper half. The entity leaned in painfully close.

" Plaayyy aaaa gaaaame wiiith meeee," came the rumble.

" Go – back – to – hell," John rasped. The tentacle slipped away from his jaw, and his head dropped back onto the loamy earth. Diavante seemed to swell three times his size, and John tried to shrink back from the cold sinking through his skin.

" Oooonnllyy oooonnee maaaay taaaake thiiiis," he lifted the sil high for everyone to see. " Ooonnlly ooonnee maaay kiiiiil Laaannteeeaaan."

A tentacle placed itself back around John's neck, lifting him to his feet. " Kiiiil hiiiim. Deeeviiiicccce iiissss yooouuurrrsss. Oooonnn mmmmyyyy maaarrrkkk."

John's heart dove for cover into his stomach.

" Ah hell," he whimpered. Diavante moved in close.

" Ruuuuunn." Then he yanked John from the clearing, tossing him through a gap formed by both Genii and Cys. On landing hard, free of Diavante, free to move, he scurried backwards and away from his living nightmare. The two sides watched him with amusement, some laughing, Culs especially.

 _They want to play, guess I gotta play._ Critter-mode washed over him as he flipped onto all fours.

His mind cleared – get to the gate. More than that though. He saw the sil, still raised triumphantly. Survive, get sil, kill Diavante.

Yes, kill Diavante. Isn't that what mattered most? Screw himself, screw the hunt. Get the sil, get it away.

Kill Diavante. Kill, kill, kill, and end it all.

John Sheppard didn't matter.

With that goal firmly lodged in his brain, John charged straight at Diavante, and leaped.

" Nooooowww!" came the sky-splitting rumble.

Hell officially broke loose.

TBC...


	30. Hunted

Beckett slid to a stop right at the stairs in time to see John – creature John – scrabbling against the slick floor in a similar halt, only to be snatched around the neck and tossed rag doll style through the gate. The black mass of misty shadow soon followed afterward. Impulse would have had Beckett charging through to follow, but common sense always had a better hold on his mind. He remained rooted where he was as the gate lingered on.

" Someone read the address," came the call from the familiar voice of Lorne. Common sense was running rampant, lucky them, and no one had yet to go charging through the still shimmering gate.

Then, finally, the gate rushed closed in disintegrating liquid.

" The address?"

" Got it!" Someone called. " It's one we know. Colvan."

Colvan, Beckett knew of it. Generally one of the most thankfully uneventful worlds any of the teams had been through. The people – simple farmer types. The missions – successful trade, food in exchange for medicines. Technology – none, unless the Colvans followed the Genii practice and hid it. Initially, Beckett was already to sigh out a breath of relief, until he recalled the thing that had chucked John like a stick through the gate. He snapped from his odd stupor, whirling around to hurry into the control room where Lorne stood by a tech hand, looking over the address.

" Dial the bloody thing up, we need to go after John!" Beckett said, pointing toward the gate as he approached the two.

" What's going on?" Weir said as she came jogging in, dressed haphazardly in jeans and an old T-shirt. " What happened?"

" It's Colonel Sheppard, ma'am," Lorne quickly explained. " He just got tossed through the gate by some kind of... black – thing."

" I think it might have been that Diavante," Carson jumped in. " We heard screamin'. John was chasin' it. But we got the address, we need to go after him."

Weir nodded. " Yes go."

Beckett was already heading from the control room. " Let me grab my bag. I have a feelin' Sheppard's going to be injured..."

" Wait!" Lorne called. Beckett halted and turned abruptly, already fuming.

" We don't have time! The lad could be..."

" Dr. Beckett, I'm sorry, I know, but we need to think about this for a moment. The gate didn't automatically shut down when they went through. It stayed on long enough for us to snag the address. We already know this Diavante guy has a thing for Atlantis, we know he has allies. Plus he pretty much shoved Colonel Sheppard through the gate. If this Diavante was so bent on getting the device and getting away, why take the Colonel? We need to get the Colonel, yeah, but we can't rush into this. I'm thinking a trap might be involved."

Beckett was ready to argue, but his mind processed fast enough to shut him up. Lorne was right, the situation was off even more so than it already was.

" How did Diavante even get here?" Weir asked. " The gate never activated."

" Probably followed the team through," Lorne replied. " Ma'am, if I may suggest since time isn't exactly on our side here. I say we send a MALP through, see if they have the gate guarded, then go from there. I really advise we don't rush into this. We get caught, we could be used against Atlantis. If the way's clear, we should go by cloaked puddle jumper."

Lorne's quick thinking dissipated some of the urgency. Weir nodded stiffly with arms crossed tight. " All right, do it. But I want men around the gate."

Lorne nodded, signaled with a twitch of the wrist for two marines to follow, and headed from the control room. Weir turned to Beckett, not trying to conceal the bone deep worry.

" We'll get him back lass," Beckett assured with as much conviction as he could convey. " And we'll come back ourselves. Wouldn't be the first time, you know that."

Weir nodded, which seemed all she was capable of doing.

Beckett nodded back, then also made a mad dash from the control room, rushing down corridors to the infirmary. The alarms were a universal wake up call. Ronon and Teyla were already on their feet, and despite the bandaged arm Ronon looked ready to rumble. Rodney was up, looking frantically about.

" Wh-what's going on? What happened?"

Beckett ordered those nurses present to gather the needed items and toss them into bags. Maybe he was jumping to medical conclusions, but that scream of John's was still making Beckett's blood curdle. No way was the man fine.

" Diavante, Colonel Sheppard, infiltration, kidnapping. That fill ya in enough lad?"

Rodney gaped. " What? No!"

" Sorry, Rodney, no time. Teyla, Ronon, I'd advise against ya comin', but seein' as how that's yet to stop ya (and I blame Colonel Sheppard for that stubborn trait) be quick about readyin'."

To which Ronon replied, fingering his weapon. " Already ready."

With two bags prepared, Beckett headed out, followed by Teyla, Ronon, and a rather nervous looking nurse. They hurried to the jumper bay and onto an awaiting puddle jumper. Lorne was in the co-pilot's chair, with Stackhouse piloting, and two more soldiers on the right hand bench. Once aboard, they played the waiting game, with Ronon all ready antsy two minutes in. Five minutes passed, then..."

" Puddle jumper three? This is control room. The MALP as been sent, the way looks clear, you're good to go."

" Copy control room," Stackhouse replied. The floor opened and the jumper slowly descended to stop before the shimmering event horizon. Stackhouse cloaked the jumper, then nudged it with a thought into the shimmering pool. One wild worm hole ride later, the jumper emerged into a gray, misty morning. The jumper quickly ascended, tilting back sharply, in avoidance of any potential weapons fire discharging from within the forest.

" We'd have better luck on the ground," Ronon said. " This mist is pretty thick."

" That's what life signs detectors are for," Lorne replied, and the LSD popped up before them. Stackhouse's jaw went slack, Teyla gasped, and Beckett's eyes rounded over.

" Oh I bloody hope all those are animals," Carson breathed. Dots were all over the place, moving fast in every conceivable direction, many traveling in clusters.

Lorne's jaw twitched tersely. " Somehow I don't think so."

Suddenly, the puddle jumper bucked, jolting the passengers, and replacing the LSD with schematics.

" What the hell?" Stackhouse gaped. " Something's wrong with the power... Holy crap!"

A black cloud filled the window, veiling out the light of the outside world. The puddle jumper shuddered, whined, bucked, then did one massive, heaving jolt accompanied by a loud thud. Lights flickered, and without warning the jumper bay doors whined open. Everyone turned, then froze, as bodies piled in, both Genii and Cys, all with weapons pointed at the Lanteans.

SGASGASGASGASGA

John didn't have the cover of darkness. He only had the heights. The trees were big here, here being a world he knew on different levels. Trade, farmers, and having been a former prisoner by the two contingents hunting him far below. He knew it more than just by sight. He new it by smell, feel and taste. He bounded through trees tall and thick as redwoods, grabbing branches whether they would hold his weight or not. He moved too fast to be dropped.

This world was not on his side. The thickening mist hid his enemies, the gray daylight muted by thickening clouds revealed him. Moisture scented heavy on the air, and clung slick to the branches. He didn't hold it past Diavante if this had been his plan all along. No fires to snuff here, the advantage belonged to the ones below. All John had was speed, and the upper places.

 _Find Diavante. Kill him!_ John flew to the next branch just as a weapon fired. He felt the cold of a stunner brush his right flank, and the heat of a bullet his left. He landed on a branch that creaked and snapped, but pushed off it in time to the branch above. Pausing, he sniffed the air.

People below him, circling the tree. Time to get the drop – literally. John skidded down the trunk using his claws to slow the descent, then dropped the rest of the way onto the ones attempting to corner him. The mist, for that moment, became his ally. He followed only by scent, attacking and clawing the hunters down. Weapons were fired, screams echoed, and silence followed fast when John finished. He grabbed a Genii rifle, slinging it over his shoulder before slinking off into the mist. He heard howls, and a low gutteral growl. John scurried up a tree, stopping about center, clinging to it with his hind legs as he brought the rifle around. The growls sounded closer, joined by whuffing about the base of the tree. John pointed the rifle down, and waited.

The first erak leaped, and John fired, the bullet tearing through the thing's thick skull. It went down with a shriek that died instantly. John slung the rifle back on and continued up the tree, searching. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, a fleeting flicker of black.

 _In the sky?_ John didn't hesitate, he followed, bounding from tree to tree. Weapons fired, but he was too quick for them to get a proper aim. When far enough away, John went back down into the mist, and like Toucan Sam followed his nose. He came in close to a cluster growing stronger in scent, heading toward him. He clamored up the tree, still within the mist, and leaped to land among them. Surprise had the Cys stumbling on getting their weapons. John attacked, kicking out,clawing, gnashing teeth into throats. He tore through them, throwing many into trees, slicing the necks of others, until none were left moving.

The blood cut through his sharpened awareness enough to make him shudder. There was so much. He didn't like that kind of death, the smell of it, taste of it, the color staining his claws. It wasn't him. But he had no time for weapons. Ignoring disdain, he went back to the trees, and leaping. He heard shouts, and eark howls.

Where was Diavante?

Push off, fly, push off, fly, moving like a lemur he'd seen at a zoo, branches nothing more than disjointed pathways. That's when – mid jump - he heard a crack, and felt searing pain burst through his shoulder. He faltered in his grab, and went tumbling, crashing, and spinning through branches to land with a crack and a thud on the ground with the wind shoved from his lungs. He lay on his side, panting, fighting back pain that refused to be shoved to the back of his mind, nostrils overwhelmed by the stench of his own blood. He heard above the crashing pound of his own heart the crunch and wet suction of footfalls on moist ground. The footfalls came around him, revealing black boots. John's eyes traveled up the legs, to the body, then the grinning face that had his blood pumping fast with fury.

Menk stood over him with a rifle resting against his shoulder; big game hunter standing over prey. The man was a freakin' cliché.

" I thought you better than this, John," he said, and began circling the Colonel, stopping to prod John in the back. John hissed.

" It's a good look for you. Really. But – stick it, John – not worth a lick in the long run. What'd ya have to sacrifice of yourself to get it? Life, limb, sanity? What'd it cost ya? What was the trade? You should get a refund." Menk came around to the front and crouched back on his haunches before John. " You're a fool, John. You don't come up against Master Diavante. And you don't come up against us. We're his ally for a reason John. Best to feed the beast and make it a friend rather than let it feed on you. Ya need a being like him, one with the brains to out think the wraith. We'd be dead without him. So why're you tryin' to tilt the wagon, John? Why be his enemy? Why stoke his rage? You've got a twisted sense of survival, there, John. He could have helped you." Menk shook his head, then with a grunt rose to his feet. " You're the biggest fool I've met yet, John. Ya know that?"

He turned, and pierced the silence with a shrill whistle. It was answered by another whistle, and long, drawn out howls. Menk looked back at John with another head shake and sympathetic look.

" No wonder you lost the city, and that _poor_ young man..."

John seethed, panting, hissing, flecks of saliva stretching from his clamped jaws. Menk nudged him in the chest, and chuckled as he brought his gun around.

Fury filled John's mind with a red haze until red was the only color he knew. Still grinning, Menk cocked the rifle.

" Sorry, John." He aimed.

The pain was shoved back. John's good arm shot out, grabbing Menk by the ankle to pull back and send the man flying back first to the ground. John rolled onto all four feet, and crouched back to grab Menk by the collar of his military issued jacket. John then rose to his feet, lifting Menk, spinning Menk around, and latching his arm across Menk's throat.

But John didn't want to end it like this. His form melted to human -risky, but he didn't care - still with the arm around the throat, and the super adrenaline roaring in his blood. He leaned in close to Menk's ear as before him the howls drew closer.

" We never lost Atlantis," he breathed, panting. " But you – officially – have." He then shoved Menk forward the precise moment an erak came leaping from the mist. The erak collided with a stunned Menk, and brought him down screaming. The erak, without thought, realization, or conscious – just blind bloodlust and animal fury – tore into Menk. John turned away with stomach coiling. He looked up to see Culs, frozen in shock with muzzle and leash dropping from numbed fingers.

John's eye twitched, the fury deepening the red. " See Culs? See how it feels _when it's one of your own you son of a bitch!"_

Culs' stricken gaze moved to John, as his hand moved to the small sheath at his hip. He drew a knife, bellowed out a cry of fury, and charged John. John altered his form, charged, and leaped at Culs with jaws gaping.

Screams shredded the forest silence, gurgling down into liquid rasps of agony, then ending. An erak cry of pain soon followed.

SGASGASGASGA

Carson's head snapped around as far a his neck would go, and it was starting to ache because of it.

" Face front!" The Genii guard snapped, but no amount of petulance could cover the waver in his voice. Gulping, Beckett reluctantly moved his gaze back to the front. His arms were tiring from having to be held on his head, his knees were aching from being in a kneeling position, and his heart wouldn't stop thudding hard at every sudden noise. Only Becka, the nurse, shared in his jumpy sentiment. The rest of the group seemed to manage self control without effort, Ronon especially, no surprises there.

The Genii and Cys were far less skilled in calm at the moment. They held there ground, keeping the team surrounded, but their heads were in motion as they glanced tensely around.

Gun fire echo ricocheted from the woods. There were screams, roars, and then nothing. Ronon grinned in that spine-numbing way of his.

" Doesn't sound too good in there," he rumbled.

" Shut it!" A Cy snapped.

" They'll kill your friend," said a Genii. " Commander Koyla is a seasoned warrior."

" Sheppard's formidable even when he's human," Ronon countered. " As a pissed off monster... let's just say I'd rather go up against ten wraith."

Beckett started at this. Positive comments from Ronon tended to be as rare as a million dollar lottery ticket. Then again, maybe he was laying it on thick just to spook the guards. But the tone – and the wicked grin – seemed genuinely sincere. Ronon had been present for John's monster tirade, after all. More gun fire, and screams. But there came roars – not of fury – but more like howls of pain that made urgency rise like a flood and Beckett squirm. Lowering his head, his eyes darted to and from Ronon who was right next to him.

" You've got a plan for gettin' us out of here," he said," now might be the time for executin' it."

Ronon sniffed and replied under his breath, " no plan yet."

Carson's eyes rounded over at that. " Bloody hell, lad! Why're ya irkin' them then?"

Ronon lifted one shoulder in a shrug. " Because it's fun."

Carson rolled his eyes. " Oh, bugger it. Well ya best start thinkin' fast. I know John has the means of handlin' things himself, but it'd be nice if he had a bit of back up if you get me. Souped up beasty or not, the less hurt the lad is, the better."

" I know that," Ronon replied, losing the smile. " I'm thinking. Ask Lorne, maybe he's got something."

" He's all the way at the other bloody end of the line..."

" Quiet!" snapped a Genii. Carson stiffened and shot his gaze straight ahead, trying to look as innocent and harmless as possible, though reckless thought strayed toward snatching the nearest gun from the nearest guard. Keeping in one position was apparently causing him delirium, and he quietly groaned.

" I said quiet!" The Genii snapped again. Carson hadn't realized the groan had been so dang audible. The young soldier came up to Carson, and slammed the butt of the rifle into Carson's gut. Air rushed from his lungs, and he doubled up in pain, dropping his hands to his stomach. Growling, Ronon made to rise only to get whacked across the jaw by the same Geniii and weapon. He shook the effect off, and pinned the Genii with his most knee-weakening glare. The Genii, sneering, took a step back.

" Be quiet, all of you! Next person who talks gets a bullet..."

He was never given the chance to finish when there came a cry, and a dark form shot quickly through the mist, snatching the Genii and lifting him away screaming. The scream rose above them, increasing in pitch, then ended with a thump.

Carson searched the skies nervously. " What the bloody hell! Was that John?"

" Last time I saw," Ronon said, " John didn't have wings."

The guards ducked, babbling, pointing their weapons in ever direction. There came another shriek like cry, and the dark shape shot out of the mist, taking another soldier with it. Weapons fired, a man screamed, and the scream stopped suddenly with a thud.

A Cy turned his weapon on Lorne. " Get us out of here!" he wailed, shoving the barrel into Lorne's shoulder. Lorne didn't move, so the Cy turned the weapon on Carson who'd finally struggled back to kneeling position. " Now, or I kill him!"

A shriek, and Carson felt a rush of air over his head when the winged form shot over head, clipping the Cy to send him actually flipping and landing unconscious onto his chest. In their mad haste to see the creature, the three remaining guards' attention was removed from the prisoners.

" I think now's a good time to do something," Ronon flatly stated. He scrambled off the ground, straight at a Cy to pile drive him to the ground. Lorne, Teyla, and the two marines sprang into action, attacking the final two guards just as they swung their weapons around. Outnumbered, the guards were subdued with weapons removed. Carson got to his feet, wincing at the pain in his gut, and held out a hand to help Becka up. Ronon had Lorne and his men pin the soldiers to the ground as he tied up their hands and ankles.

Carson watched it all in a detached sort of way. Then, as though just now recalling the source for their rescue, he turned his eyes heavenward. He saw nothing, but he did catch the distant roar of agony that made his blood go to ice.

SGASGASGASGA

John raced through the thickening mist, blood flying from his shoulder, from his clothes, his claws, his mouth. It was everywhere, filling his snout, coating his tongue, veiling his vision. It was his world, his existence, and it soaked him to his very core. He accepted the blood, because there was no time to dismiss it, to fight against it. Blood was all there was now, and to emerge on the other side, he had to swim through a river of it. So he let the blood fuse with his being, let it spill and cover him, tearing, biting, and shredding through to the singular goal that was Diavante's blood – had Diavante any blood left to spill into the river.

John kept his jaw slack enough to breathe through. Each breath was raspy, and uncomfortable with a pain in his side. Pain was getting tricky about being pushed back, but the blood gave him something to focus on, and the rage.

 _Kill Diavante._

John sniffed the air, and followed the invisible trail of scent. On hearing voices, he crouched, and waited. Men emerged from the mist, four of them, one he knew.

 _Koyla._

John rushed at the group, too quick for them to act. He dispatched them, then whipped around to plow into Koyla, driving him into a tree and pinning him there with one clawed hand on the man's chest. Koyla revealed little fear in his features, but the stench of it was strong, exposed by the sweat dripping down the man's face. John brought his fanged snout in close, close enough to tear out the man's throat.

" Just like that, Sheppard?" Koyla said without compunction. " One bite, and it's over? And it only took you losing your humanity to do it."

The SOB was good. A moment of clarity cut through the blood and the screams to the back seat driver that was John's real self. John, human or beast, was a creature of defense. He attacked first when needed, defended every other time, and killed only out of necessity. Cold blood wasn't his style, his nature, or anything his heart could handle.

He wasn't an animal, and like hell he would become one. John leaned to the side, moving his snout closer to Koyla's ear.

" _Pooointsss,"_ he hissed. " _Nooooot tooooodaaaaaaay. Sooooome daaaaayyyy."_ He released Koyla, who smirked, tugging on his shirt and coat to straighten it.

" Apparently you're still in there after all. And you've still yet to learn anything..."

John cut him short by swiping him across the face and sending him flying sideways into the dirt, unconscious and bleeding from the gashes in his face. John went over to him, and lowered his head toward the downed man's ear.

" _Sooo yyyyooooou dooon't foooorgeeeet,"_ he snarled, and moved on. He knew, one day, someone would ask him why he let Koyla live, the man who was a threat, a nuisance, and an all around SOB. In time to come, Sheppard would probably be unable to answer, both out of a lack of a desire to, and lack of proper words to explain it. In the here and now, it was all about humanity, and pulling himself from the river of blood he had been drowning in.

Koyla, in the here and now, was a threat only to John, not Atlantis. Diavante was the threat. Diavante needed to die. And Koyla – John wanted to face him human, but at the extreme moment, to become human would prevent him from returning to being the beast. He needed to be the beast, just for a little longer, while he still could. He could feel time growing short, as his own blood dripped from his body.

The forest had gone quiet, too quiet, bad omen quiet, but the reason for it could have been his presence alone. He heard no voices, scented no human smells. He was alone. So where was Diavante?

John sat back on his haunches, rising just a little until his hands were off the ground, threw his head back, and emitted a roar that could have split the sky with its power. When the roar died, he dropped back to all fours, and waited. If Diavante spoke beast – no doubts that he did – he would know what the call meant.

 _I win, so come and get me._

John waited, and waited, blood falling in soft pats to the ground. He did not move, blink, or so much as twitch a muscle. He conserved all energy, gathering the little bit he had left to reinforce the form. The only movement from him was the gentle rise and fall of his flanks. He couldn't say how long the wait would last, but he would wait, however long.

He took a slow breath, inhaling, and before he could release it, arctic cold sharp as a blade of ice pierced his back. He threw his head back, and howled out his agony. It rose higher when he was lifted up from the ground. He stiffened, arching his back, shrieking the air out of his assaulted lungs. Then as quickly as it had happened, he was thrown to the ground, and the dagger of ice slipped from his back.

Only to have ice wrap around his throat and lift him again, turning him to face the black mass of darkness that was Diavante.

" You have not won," he rumbled. " There will be others. I will have them hunt you, forever. Atlantis will still be mine." Diavante threw John into a tree, and he fell in a crumpled heap to the ground. But recovery was quick. He shook off the effects and flashes of light in his eye, and looked up to see Diavante flowing toward him. Snarling, bristling, John tore into the ground at a charge and leaped. He smacked into Diavante and began to tear, bite, and rip into the black mass. There was mist, something more substantial, and something deeper within that was solid. Diavante howled a combination rumble and trumpeting. Tentacles wrapped around John's neck, torso, legs, and arms, pulling, only to be bitten. Divante pulled, John tore, black blood oozing over his claws and arms. John burrowed deeper into Diavante to the vulnerable center, and touched something cool and hard. He gripped it.

Cold shot straight into John's chest, through his heart. Before he could scream, the coil around his neck tightened. Lack of air, and the numb spreading through his hammering heart, made him go rigid, losing his grip on Diavante. Diavante pulled him away and lifted him up high. The Ancient entity, splashing black blood, howled with burning rage as coils tightened around John's body, crushing his trachea, ribcage, and smothering his heart.

But John never let go of the object in his clawed hand.

Through the swiftly descending fog of unconsciousness, John heard a sound. It was a shriek, coming near, fast. He saw before his vision darkened a shape dropping from the sky. It was small, smaller than John at least, with tawny fur, a wolf-like head with narrow ears, and bat-like wings attached to long arms. Hind legs stretched forward with clawed toes spread and...

 _Crap, is it wearing a dress?_ Dress and amber cloak, with frayed sleeves flapping back in the rushing air. The creature landed on Diavante, and took up a psychotic burrowing of its own.

Diavante released John who fell like a discarded sack to the ground. Tentacles reached out behind, grabbing the smaller beast, pulling it away, and tossing it to the side into a tree. The creature impacted, and landed unconscious.

Diavante turned his focus back to John. John struggled to his feet against pain and cold to back away, hissing and bristling.

" Give it to me!" the entity bellowed. " Atlantis is mine! Mine! It belongs to me!"

Tentacles snaked out toward John, converging on the sil. John glanced to the winged creature, wearing a familiar dress, a familiar cloak, still unmoving.

John didn't have a choice. Diavante would keep coming. He would take the sil, gather his army, send them through, take Atlantis, hunt him, hunt his friends. Never ending cycle of grab and retrieve, grab and retrieve. John was sick of this crap. One device wasn't worth losing Atlantis.

It wasn't worth Krissa's life.

 _Sorry kid._

John gripped the sil in both hands, whipped around, and began bashing it into a tree, over and over, metal denting until the panels popped off, and parts went flying.

" _Noooooooooooo!"_ Diavante's howl had the potency to shatter glass. It stabbed through John's ears, into his brain, but he kept on pummeling, shrieking over Diavante. The mutilation of the sil ended when Diavante knocked John to the side with a massive tentacle solid as stone. John flew one way, the sil the other when he missed the tree and tossed it instead. John landed rolling and tumbling over the ground, only stopping when his body met a tree.

It was the final assault. His body couldn't take any more, and released the creature form, sliding back into John's human form to conserve the little energy he had left. Blurring eyes rolled up in his skull, his vision filling with Diavante's shapeless form. A mouth of jagged teeth gaped open and lowered toward him.

P-90 fire broke the silence in successive, rattling pops, and Diavante reared back. Black blood spurted from him with each hit coming on all sides. He melted away from John, turning one way, then the other, but the gunfire kept coming. He shifted into John's creature-shadow doppelganger, and took off into the woods. John heard shouts, more firing, and rumbling cries of pain.

It was all white noise to John. Across the way, the winged wolf was gone. John knew the body that lay in its place, and the face that lifted with effort from the ground, stained in blood, dirt, and tears. Krissa pushed to hands and knees, and crawled to John, crying with sobs that shook her. John tried to get up, screamed at himself to. He struggled to his hands, then his knees. He looked down at the blood, so much blood, covering every inch of him. He rose up onto his knees and collapsed against the tree in sickened horror with stomach clenching, readying the vomit.

He did this, all of this, all this blood. His hands, his teeth, tearing into human flesh, opening veins and spilling crimson liquid to stain the ground and his own body. He'd killed like an animal.

John whimpered at the sight, the taste, the smell – killing like an animal. He shrank against the tree, trembling, panting, gagging. He felt so cold.

Then came a touch on his shoulder. He looked up into the terror-stricken and tear-stained face of Krissa, still sobbing, so much like a child now.

" Mr... Sheppard," she gasped, and more tears flowed. John forgot the blood, its existence, its reason for being. Krissa was here. She was alive. He had found her.

He hadn't failed.

John wanted to laugh and cry and scream, but couldn't do any, so settled for wrapping his arms around the girl with smaller arms wrapping back around him. They hugged eachother tightly as though afraid to let go, and John's arms shook with the effort it took. He was so tired, so cold, and couldn't stop shivering.

" It's okay Krissa," he breathed. " It's over, it's over, it's over..." The cold hurt, like a thousand knives, and he sucked in a sharp breath, gagging, moaning, tensing as it spiked through him. " Oh gosh it hurts!" he gasped. Every breath, every beat of his heart, tripled the pain that thrashed him from the inside out. It was as though the blade of ice had broken off, and remained lodged in his chest, his back, and all his limbs. It pricked his heart with each pulse.

It was too much. The adrenaline rushed fast from his veins, dissolving as though his blood had become acid. It took his strength with it until his arms dropped to the ground and his body sagged.

" Mr. Sheppard!"

He felt himself being half-lowered, half toppling to the ground.

" John!"

" It hurts," he whispered, which was all he could do. Too much pain, too much weariness...

" Somebody help me!"

SGASGASGASGA

" Somebody help me!"

A thrill of electric panic shot through Carson, and he ran faster, almost keeping in step with the marine leading the way.

" That sounded like... a wee... lass..." he panted.

" We saw 'em over here," the young marine explained, " when that black blob thing took off."

They didn't have far to go, it just felt that way. Time was a drawn out pain during the urgent times. So when they came on the scene, Carson nearly lost his footing stumbling in shock. He saw, past the marine, a young girl – maybe twelve – in a ragged dress with torn sleeves, kneeling over a prone and bloody figure. She sobbed, shook the figure, and rocked back and forth on folded legs, shivering. Carson weaved around the marine to fall to his own knees by that figure in the once gray shirt drenched in blood. The girl looked up at Beckett incomprehensibly, and coughed.

" H-help him," she squeaked. " C-c-can you help him?"

Carson, snapping the bag open, smiled falteringly and nodded. " Aye lass, that I can."

He put his hand on the sticky shoulder, and pulled. Sheppard rolled unresponsively onto his back to splay out bonelessly. He was cold, even through the shirt and the blood, his only movement subdued shivers and labored, shallow breaths. But his eyes were open, staring blindly into the sky. Beckett, heart racing, checked the pulse that was way too fast. His nurse, finally catching up, dropped down beside Carson, and all unease was wiped from her as she cut through the Colonel's tattered shirt with scissors, sleeves and all, and pulled it away as Beckett placed on the stethoscope.

Like with the pulse, the heart was too fast. Beckett unconsciously placed his hand on John's ghost-white flank, and yanked it away with an alarmed hiss.

" Bugger his skin is like bloody ice!" He felt again, cold to the touch. He looked at the Colonel's mouth, but the man's face was masked by blood. Carson leaned forward to be in sight of the Colonel's vacant eyes. " Colonel Sheppard? Colonel Sheppard, can you hear me? We're going to get you out of here son, so just hang on." He then tapped the radio at his ear. " Major Lorne, Ronon, Teyla, can anyone read? We need to get Colonel Sheppard back to Atlantis stat. What's the status on Diavante."

" Dead, sir."

Caron looked up, and his bones tried to leap from his skin. The nurse stifled a yelp by slapping her hand over her mouth, and the young marine whipped his P-90 around.

A creature – like a bat-eared vulture standing on two legs – was now behind the girl with hands clasped loosely behind the back. The creature sniffed in picturesque nonchalance.

" Master Diavante is dead, sir." The creature looked down at Colonel Sheppard, and cocked an eyebrow in slight surprise. " And Mr. Sheppard... is not well..."

SGASGASGASGA

Carson could do little in the jumper concerning hypothermia say for keeping John covered in a blanket while rubbing his chest as the nurse massaged Sheppard's arms. Unresponsive, breathing fast, barely there in the real world... But the girl still kneeling by his side, holding his hand, gradually sparked a small gram of awareness in John. The empty eyes were clearing, flicking about until they settled on Krissa.

Through the pain he was in, and the cold consuming him, John's mouth twitched up in a smile, and his eyes lit up with what Carson assumed had to be hope.

" Y-you're here..." he gasped out. " Y-you're okay..."

Krissa smiled, wiping her eyes with one hand.

" I'm okay," she choked.

The creature the girl had called Bart hopped down from the bench to move up beside Krissa.

" You are not looking well, Mr. Sheppard."

Sheppard coughed out a chuckle. " H-h-hey B-Bart. I – I thought... Your part... was done?"

The creature sniffed. " My part in your endeavors, Mr. Sheppard. Miss Krissa still had need of me."

John chuckled again, but the effort overwhelmed him, and his eyes rolled back into his head as his eyelids slid closed. Krissa gasped.

" Mr. Sheppard?"

Beckett quickly checked Sheppard's pulse, and nodded. Teyla knelt on the other side of the young girl.

" He is only asleep," she assured. " He will be all right."

" Aye," Carson said with a smile. " Like hell I'm losing him without a fight."

TBC...


	31. Home

Rodney wasn't really sleeping. He had to pretend to in order to stay off the busy-hands nurses with their needles and attempts at sedating him rather than simply answering his questions concerning what the hell was going on. So when the infirmary doors rushed open in a flood of demanding voices shouting orders, Rodney's eyes snapped open in response and his head snapped up in time to see them wheeling in a blood-coated, supine Sheppard. With a one, two, three they transported the overly slender, overly bruised, overly messed up body onto a bed to immediately begin covering it with heating blankets. An oxygen mask was placed over the wan face, IV stuck in the hand, monitor to the chest to pick up a rhythm that couldn't be healthy, and then the curtain was pulled.

" He's lost a lot of blood," came Carson's voice. " Through the shoulder. We need to get him warm, I need to do surgery..."

Rodney swallowed back bile at that. It meant they would be moving him again to where it was more sterile. He stopped listening after that – kind of, until he heard words like 'possible broken ribs and dislocated shoulder'. It was official. Sheppard never got a break. The man was like fine china – tap him and he chips. Every other time one would think him born out of solid rock.

Of course, even rocks can shatter.

Rodney sighed wearily since his friend was otherwise unable to do so for himself. Needless to say, it sucked to be Sheppard.

They did move him again after a time, still under blankets and hooked up to IVs and the monitor being wheeled along with him to the clean room. No time like the present to start cutting up and digging around in the Lt. Colonel. They hadn't even cleaned him up yet, probably waiting until they were in more sterile conditions.

In the sudden silence, Rodney heard sniffling. He turned his head, and jumped, aggravating his sore chest, at seeing a little girl – ragged and dirt-smeared – sitting on one of the beds with hands clasped in her lap as a nurse checked her over.

" ... bumps and bruises, nothing serious," the nurse, Kaylee by her name-tag, said. " Just in case, we may need to take X-rays. Can you wait here for a moment, sweety? I'm just going to scrounge you up something to wear so you can get cleaned up."

The girl nodded numbly, staring at her hands wide-eyed and distant. Kaylee smiled, patted her shoulder, and headed to the back of the infirmary where supplies were kept.

 _Great, awkward moment._ Rodney looked away, because he wasn't a people person, and children ranked high on the list of people he tried to avoid. But the look on her face had even his resilient heart strings going. He hadn't seen that kind of loss since...

 _Since Sheppard burst through the gate bloody and nuts the first time._

" Where's Mr. Sheppard?"

Rodney startled again, and looked back at the girl. She returned his gaze, scared, worried, but ever so slightly composed as her hands continuously wrung until they were white.

" Where did he go? Where is he? Will he be all right?"

And this is why kids ranked number one. Too many questions he couldn't answer.

" Um..." he stammered. " They're... just fixing him up. He'll – he'll be back. He always comes back. I mean, you think this is bad..." he chuckled ruefully, but fell short when the girl averted her gaze to the floor.

 _I suck at this!_ Rodney swallowed and cleared his throat. " Listen, I know Colonel Sheppard. And when I say he'll be back, I mean it. The guy's like a rubber ball – all over the place. First up, then down, then up again. Staying down's... not really his style. In fact, I've yet to hear his voodoo highness say that Sheppard's going to be okay and not have it come true. The man may seem to have a death wish, but death never seems too keen about taking him, know what I mean?"

The girl's brow furrowed in perplexity. Rodney shook his head.

" Know what? Never mind. Sheppard doesn't go down easy, let's just leave it at that. He'll be back out here in no time."

That seemed to do the trick. The girl's brow lifted, smoothing over, and Rodney couldn't help feeling a little smug about it.

 _Hey, I actually comforted a child. Go me._ Then, sudden realization struck. He pointed at the girl with his unbound hand.

" Hey, you wouldn't happen to be Krissa, would you?"

The girl, once again perplexed, nodded.

Rodney perked. " Oh awesome. I have totally been wanting to talk to you about that sil of yours. Absolute genius. I'm Rodney, by the way..."

Now it was Krissa's turned to perk. " Mr. Sheppard's friend?"

" ... and that sil, huh? What? Friend? I guess..."

" He said you were his friend, and that I really needed to meet you."

Rodney blinked rapidly at that statement. " He-he did? Really?"

She nodded. " Yes, really. He said I would like you."

That hit with twice the force, sending Rodney's mind reeling. " Uh... oh... um... Why did he say that?"

Krissa shrugged. " I don't remember. I just remember him saying I'd like you. Oh, and that you know a lot about the Ancients' ring."

Rodney nearly leaped from the bed at this blessedly wondrous opening never once presented to him unless a crisis with the gate occurred. " Really!" he said in a voice several octaves too high.

Krissa allowed herself a small, shy, fleeting smile. " I've... done studies into ring design theories. The concept fascinates me."

When nurse Kaylee returned with the right sized scrubs, it was to an in depth discussion between grown man and little girl concerning wormhole physics and Stargate dynamics, and neither sounded ready to let up any time soon.

SGASGASGASGASGA

John awoke to a very disagreeable onslaught of discomfort. Pain pulsed through his body with focal points at the shoulder, about the ribs, and along his spine. He heard rhythmic beeping, and moans emanating from his own throat with each cresting wave of physical unpleasantness. He would have moved, but long experience had taught him just how bad an idea that always turned out to be.

" Do you need assistance, Mr. Sheppard?"

For a brief, heart beat of a moment, John forgot his own pain. It was a fight to get his eyes to open, but open they did, a crack at first to let in a sliver of light that stabbed his brain, then centimeters farther when his brain ceased its protests.

Bart's face loomed before him, and John was grateful he didn't have the energy to jump back in alarm. John tried to speak, but his voice caught in his dry throat. He coughed, cleared it, and tried again.

" Personal space..." he whispered.

Bart's ears perked. " Mr. Sheppard?"

" Personal space, Bart. You really need to... grasp that... concept." He coughed again. Talking was too much of a chore.

Bart reached out and lifted a plastic cup complete with bendy straw from a tray. " Liquid, Mr. Sheppard?" He held the cup and straw within reach, and John lifted his head in inch from the pillow to take the straw into his mouth. A few sips, and his throat felt ready to belt out the National Anthem. Actually, that would have been pushing it, but relief tended to exaggerate everything. When finished, Bart set the cup back on the tray.

" Are you in pain, Mr. Sheppard? Mr. Beckett was quite adamant on knowing when you awake, and if any pain was present."

John winced at another agonizing crest, so could only nod.

Bart frowned. " I will alert Mr. Beckett then." He turned, about to go.

" Wait," John croaked. " Hold up, not yet."

Bart turned back, cocking a bald eyebrow. " But you said..."

John winced again. " Yeah, I know, pain. Not a stranger to it. It's not going to kill me. Where's Krissa?"

Bart swiveled his head unnervingly around to the bed across from John where Krissa laid curled under a blanket. Somewhere in the infirmary, within the near-quiet, John heard the discernible clack of keys on a laptop.

Hazy memory crept its way back to him, and he closed his eyes, shuddering from more than just physical pain.

" Mr. Sheppard?"

He opened his eyes again. " She took the serum."

Bart nodded. " Yes. After returning to Master Diavante's..."

John lifted his head from the pillow, and the heart monitor stumbled in its rhythm when his heart stumbled in its beat. " She what?" He would have shouted, but energy still wasn't giving him the time of day. He couldn't even hold his head up any longer, so let it drop back to the pillow.

" Returned to Master Diavante's."

" Why? How?"

" How is simple. Her prototype sil. Why... I'm not precisely privy to the details. See seemed quite angry when she returned. Scared, yes, but mostly angry. She was not alone. She was with a cousin and several armed men. I believe they were hoping to be rid of Diavante, but seeing as he was not present, she requested the serum instead. She had me accompany them back in order to assist with the administration of it. She wished her cousin to be unaware of her plans. She questioned me on Diavante's where abouts, and when I told her of his plans concerning the retrieval of the sil and the death of you, she wasted little time in going to the planet where the auction takes place."

Bart's answers led only to more confusion. " You knew what Diavante had planned?"

Bart sniffed and shrugged. " I put it together from snatches of conversation, and glimpses of his schedule. It seemed there was to be no auction, only a contest that involved the eliminating of one John Sheppard. Actually it was all he could talk about during his return from hunting Krissa, gathering and preparing this 'contest'. You left quite an impression on him, Mr. Sheppard."

John groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and running a shaking hand through his hair. " Why the hell can't I ever leave a good impression? I'm a nice guy, I try not to piss people off. Why doesn't it work?"

Bart shrugged. " I do not know sir. Although it seems to me that those with a good quality nature tend to always make an enemy of those with a bad quality nature. Now may I call in Mr. Beckett? You are looking rather green."

John dropped his hand from his head and nodded. " Yeah, that might be a good idea."

Bart scurried off in a clack of claws, and John's view of Krissa was unobstructed. She was awake, eyes open and staring at him. He stared back.

" Hey there," he croaked.

Her lips twitched in an awkward smile. " Hi." She then slid from the covers off the bed. She was in scrubs, which made her seem more like a short nurse than a patient. She came over to John's bed with hands clasped in front of her, chewing her lip. After a moment of fidgeting silence, she pried her hands apart to place them on the metal rail.

" How are you feeling?" she asked.

John twitched from another spike of pain. " Like crap."

Krissa frowned, but John grinned.

" Wait until Beckett gets here. He's got stuff that'll have me feeling like a million bucks in no time."

" Huh?"

John shook his head. " Never mind. You'll see." They fell into more momentary silence, in which time John let his smile go. " Why'd you take the serum, Krissa?"

Krissa rested her chin on the rail and shrugged. Never had she seemed more like an every day twelve year old than she did right then, zoning out just a little for the inevitable reprimand.

" I don't know. I was tired, I guess... of being scared, and hunted, and hiding. Of losing people."

John furrowed his brow, but didn't say anything.

" I heard what Bart told you," she said. " I didn't go back for the serum. I went back to stop Diavante. That's why I brought others. The serum... I took the bottles because I _thought_ about taking them, because Diavante wasn't there, and I got scared. But I wasn't sure... I was scared to take it. Then Bart told me where Diavante was and why. I don't know, I just got really mad. I didn't want you to die – like... Bren. I couldn't let it happen again. So I took the serum... a-and you know the rest."

John let out a shuddering sigh. " Yeah, I do, I was there. And let me tell you – for a genius, that wasn't too smart of you. Krissa, I told you, over and over... You're not supposed to protect me. I did what I did, all of it, to protect you. And if you had died, it would have been for nothing. You would have died, then I would have died, and it would have been for nothing."

Moisture pooled in Krissa's eyes, then spilled down her cheeks. She lifted her head to wipe her nose, and the struggle she waged trying to hold back from breaking down into sobs looked painful. Guilt stabbed John's heart and buried deep, but he couldn't apologize, because he was right.

" I know," she hiccuped. " I know it was stupid. But I didn't care. I didn't want you to die because of me, Mr. Sheppard. You're my friend. I didn't want to lose you like I lost Bren. I couldn't let it happen. Why do you have to die for me to live? Why are you less important? Why can't you be saved too? I don't care if it was dumb. I didn't want you to die."

She lost the struggle, jerking and twitching with sobs. John's throat tightened, and he struggled to lean to the side, rising enough on his own volition without the use of his unbound arm. He slid his arm around Krissa, careful of the IV, and pulled her into a light embrace to weep into his shoulder. She threw her arms around his neck.

John patted her back with one hand. " I'm not dead, Krissa. You did save me."

" I'm not dead either," Krissa replied. Simple, straightforward, but hitting John like a fist made of cinder block.

She was alive, right here, right now, safe in Atlantis, just as John had promised her. For a moment, John didn't acknowledge the pain practically screaming through his body. Warmth radiated from his chest, through his veins, until it was all he felt, and for the first time in a long time, he felt absolutely and undeniably content.

It felt good – right – to be alive.

" Ya tryin' to extend your stay, Colonel?"

John looked over Krissa's shoulder at Beckett, and smiled through the pain.

" Just doing what needs to be done," he said. He let his arm drop from Krissa. Krissa released him, and helped ease him back down onto the pillow. Carson came over with a syringe and injected the contents into the IV. Numbing bliss eventually followed.

Krissa wiped the last vestiges of moisture from her eyes, and exchanged the frown for a small smile. Beckett set about the busy work of checking lines, bandages, and stitches.

" How bad is it, doc?" John asked.

Carson smirked. " Very bad. You're already showin' signs of improvement, which means you'll be out of here days sooner than what's expected."

John chuckled despite the twinge in his chest. " No tormentin' the doc with escape attempts then?"

" Nope. And oh how I was lookin' forward to it," he said, eyes heavy-lidded and voice thick in the sarcasm. " If this improvement rate were a constant we wouldn't have to keep puttin' up the sign."

John's smile became wistful. " Colonel's in/Colonel's out?"

Carson looked up from his busy work in surprise. " Ya know of it, then?"

John nodded. " Yeah, know of it." He fell into thoughtful silence for a moment. " I don't think you'll ever be taking it down."

" Already plannin' future stays?"

John looked over at Krissa and winked. " No choice. I have no intentions of dieing – ever."

TBC...


	32. Epilogue

John's team had a story to tell. Diavante's death had been – for lack of a better word – disturbing. And it was Ronon who had said it. They'd chased Diavante down, surrounding him, blasting the black mass of smoke until the darkness dissolved, leaving behind a grotesque, misshapen body that melted down like tar mixed with blood until nothing remained.

Even Ronon had gone a little pale, according to Teyla when it was her turn to fill John in.

For John, the manner of death didn't matter, just the end of the nightmare. Literally speaking. John hadn't dreamed a bad dream since being hauled back to Atlantis under Beckett's care.

Not quite true. There was still a bad dream left.

Rodney and Krissa hit it off faster than John had seen Rodney hit it off with anyone; because no matter Rodney's sarcasm or how he blustered and bellowed about this or that, Kirssa's response would always be a sweet little giggle followed by a "you're funny, Dr. McKay." Not even Rodney's inexorable anger could keep his heart from melting at that.

More unlikely companion-hood ensued at John's insistence that Bart get out and about, explore the city, be more independent, and keep out of sight of Carson's needles, whose fascination with the genetic hobgoblin had him continually wanting to draw blood. Teyla had volunteered to show Bart around, with Ronon following out of a mistrust he wouldn't admit. When Teyla next came to visit John, she was alone, which sparked an electric jolt of fear through John.

" Ah, crap, please don't tell me Ronon ate Bart."

Teyla, smirking, shook her head as she pulled up a stool. " No. We stopped by for some lunch, and Major Lorne invited Ronon and I to play that card game, the one where you wager. Bart became quite interested in participating. When I left, he had won twenty candy bars, four MREs, seven Mola fruits from Sriot, and some of your earth money. The money he returned. The food – except for the fruit – he gave to Ronon. Ronon is trying to bring in others to play."

It was hard for John to keep from bursting out laughing and pissing off his busted ribs, and he nearly suffocated trying.

SGA

John was released from the infirmary after three days – the one tolerable plus side to the serum. Arm cradled safely in a sling, and his body more comfortable in a T-shirt and BDUs, his first act of freedom was to go to the mess hall and quiet the complaint of his worked up stomach. There he found Ronon and Bart eating what looked to be some sort of stew, huddled over their food and not saying a word. John smiled at that, albeit sadly. Bren should have been a part of that muted fray. He missed reading the old man's words from the data pad.

John's own food retrieval was made easier by the always observant Bart, who took one notice of the sling and immediately hopped up to handle the tray and food.

" Heard you've been kicking a little ass at poker," John said as they headed to the table. Bart sniffed.

" I do well enough."

Bart set the tray down, and John sat before it. Ronon looked up and grinned.

" Kicking ass is an understatement," he said. To prove the point, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a hand full of power bars, chocolate bars, and a Snickers.

Bart shrugged indifferently, licking its stew spoon clean. " I prefer the fruit."

John was careful about laughing, but ended up with a twinge in his side all the same.

Two sandwiches, soup, and a slice of cake later, John resumed his meandering until he came to the lab. He willed the doors open and walked in to find Krissa, Rodney, and Zelenka gathered around Krissa's own data pad, talking softly as Krissa pointed things out. On looking up at John, her demeanor went from all business to all childish excitement, practically bouncing as she relinquished the pad to go bounding over to John, throwing her arms around his waist.

" You're out!"

John staggered at the impact, chuckling and placing his hand on her back. " Yep. Beckett finally kicked me out."

" Not fast enough I bet." Low toned, but John heard Rodney's comment all the same. He looked up to give the physicist a narrow-eyed glare.

" You shouldn't be the one to talk, McKay. Beckett had to physically shove your butt out the door."

Rodney glowered, rubbing the plastic splint on his arm. " A hand on my shoulder is not a shove."

" If you say so, McKay. What're you kids up to anyway?"

At this, Krissa released John to go bounding back over to the two scientists. " Construction of another sil." She took the pad from Rodney and flipped it around for John to see the blueprints. " My last one since I still have components to make it."

Rodney, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels, beamed. " And she's giving it to us."

Krissa nodded. " Atlantis would have more use for it."

John shoved his hand into his pocket since he couldn't fold his arms. " Don't you go home in a few days though?"

Krissa's smile, if possible, became bigger. " Dr. Weir says it's okay for me to come back and visit. And with Dr. McKay's help, I should have it finished sooner than a month."

John smiled. " So you and Bart'll be sticking around... kind of."

" Uh-huh. I'm learning a lot from Dr. McKay."

John eyed the now blushing, squirming Rodney, and smirked. " Wow, McKay. I must say your people skills – young people in particular – are coming along nicely."

Rodney gave a poor shrug of nonchalance. " Yeah, well... it's easier when the people in question know what you're talking about."

" Keep it up. You'll be running a school for gifted youngsters yet."

McKay paled, swallowing. Zelenka snickered. As Rodney whirled around to give Radek a blustering verbal tirade, John signaled Krissa over with a twitch of his head. She practically skipped. John had yet to see the eyes that were beyond her years.

" Hey listen," he said. " Since Weir's given you a free pass, I was thinking. That flying machine you told me about, the one you built that crashed? You bring me the blueprints, and I'll see if I can't get that sucker working right."

Krissa gasped. " Really?"

" Really. I'll even give you flying lessons."

She furrowed her brow at that. " Sure it would be safe?"

" As long as we have a puddle jumper following us, and install some kind of shielding in case of emergency landings... oh yeah."

Krissa giggled, then threw her arms back around John's waist. " Thank you John."

" Hey, it's what friends do."

Rodney snorted. " Get into trouble?"

John reared his head in mock surprise. " Hell yeah! You of all people should know that by now McKay."

Rodney rolled his eyes and turned to start puttering with something on the table. " And frighteningly enough, I do."

A luke-warm, salt scented ocean breeze toyed with John's hair. Stretched out prone on his back on the balcony, the metal beneath him cooled his spine, while the air warmed his chest. He pillowed his head with his good arm, and thrummed his sternum with the fingers of his injured arm, as he stared into the sky and mapped pointless constellations. He found one he swore looked just like that inflatable autopilot from _Airplane_ , so called it the constellation Otto.

The incessant, lulling rush of the ocean made his mind drift back and forth like waves. He could have sworn every muscle in his body was melting, becoming one with the floor and the air. It felt indescribably wonderful.

It was always good to be home. But today – tonight – especially so, and so much so he didn't even pine over his suspended gate travel for the next couple of days. He'd had his fill of off world for the time being.

Just for the time being, though. He gave himself two days before he started suffering cabin fever.

 _To the mainland with me then._ He'd promised Krissa a visit.

Inside the city, John caught the distant eruption of cheers rolling in from where the thrown together poker tournament was taking place. Bart was – without a doubt – winning again.

" There you are."

John turned his head to see Elizabeth standing at the entrance with arms folded.

John grinned. " Here I am."

Elizabeth uncrossed her arms and made her way over to John. She lowered herself, crossing her legs Indian style, beside him and clasped her hands in her lap.

" I was a little shocked to see you weren't at that game Ronon has going. Of course I was a little more shocked to learn that Atlantis' first major poker tournament was organized by someone from the Pegasus galaxy. Then, of course, it became even more strange when I watched your little friend winning over and over again. It's official – we have corrupted the Pegasus galaxy."

John winced. " Then I probably shouldn't tell you I taught Krissa how the play."

Elizabeth lifted both eye brows at the confession. " Did you?" She looked down, fighting to suppress a grin, a shook her head. " Lt. Colonel John Sheppard – you are a bad influence on us all."

He gave her the sweetest smile he could, hoping his eyes had gone all puppy-dogs and kittens. " But that's a good thing, right?"

Weir tilted her head to one side, still struggling against lips wanting to crook up in a grin. " In terms of teaching children to gamble, no. In every other aspect... I would have to reluctantly say yes. Being incorrigible, relentless, persistent, stubborn – they have their merits."

John looked back to the sky. " Good to hear. Don't know any other way to be."

" You're good influences are better."

John looked back at her. " And what would those be?"

Elizabeth looked up, chewing her lip as though in deep rumination. " Hmmmm, that's kind of a tough one..."

John feigned a look of hurt. " Why, I'm crushed, Dr. Weir. I thought by now you'd find at least one good aspect about me. I mean you do tolerate my presence so there must be _something_."

Elizabeth looked back at him, smiling rather than smirking, and expression softened. " How about a heart that seems too big for a human chest to hold. So big it becomes all you know and all you hear, shoving yourself out of the way, putting everyone else first, making everyone matter. Never leaving anyone behind."

" Or die trying," John added, trying to push for humor, but losing it even on himself.

Elizabeth, however, kept on smiling. " True, or die trying. Lucky for you, you've got others who think you matter too. Which is why you're still alive. You've got this nasty habit of selling yourself short... but face it; you don't give up on us or anyone without a fight, we don't give up on you without a fight."

John smiled. " So I've noticed. You know I appreciate it right? Even when I get pissed about no one listening to my orders and leaving me behind?"

" We assume as much. You may think you're a hard man to read, but you're not, at least not all the time. Contrary to what McKay likes to say, we all know you don't have a death wish."

John chuckled. " Obviously. McKay exaggerates everything." He brought the puppy and kitten eyes back. " So what else do you like about me?"

" I _admire_ your ability to put humor into just about any situation. You really are incorrigible, you know that?"

John winked. " Merits, remember?"

Elizabeth shook her head. " Great, I've created a monster..." She winced. " Um, wrong choice of words, sorry..."

" No problem. At least you didn't say 'bug'."

Both fell silent, and looked up at the indigo sky with stars that had become as familiar to them as the stars surrounding earth. Maybe even more so.

Suddenly, reacting without thinking – or more before he had time to think – John sat up, spinning around on his seat while crossing his own legs to sit Indian style in front of Elizabeth.

" I owe you an explanation," he said quickly. Weir's brow creased.

" Explanation for what?"

John took a deep breath, and exhaled quickly. " Well... not really an explanation. An answer... No, a report. Yeah, a report. A proper one. The truth."

" About what?"

John flicked his tongue over his lips. " About what happened to me... with the Cyladrans... and what happened to Mathers. The whole story. You know... before something else happens," he twitched a sheepish smile, " and I don't get the chance to."

Elizabeth leaned forward. " Okay. I'm listening."

John nodded. " It started with starvation and a little humiliation... But Mathers, he did good. He was a good kid... " It wasn't a traipse through the park, because it still sickened him, what happened. But the more he said, the more he wanted to say, feeling vindication in it for Mathers, even a little bit for himself. He had to admit there was a kind of freedom to it, not complete, just enough to feel that something had been accomplished, even if it seemed minuscule.

When he finished, there was a long, quiet moment that had John's heart picking up speed and muscles pulling tight, before Elizabeth leaned forward to put her hand on John's.

" Thank you John, for telling me."

John didn't respond except to nod. " Took me long enough though, right?"

" Circumstances beyond your control prevented it. What happened to you and Mathers was sick. You'd have to be practically heartless not to be affected by it. Of course it would be hard to talk about – doesn't matter who you are. And it proves my point. You've got more heart than even you can handle."

She smiled. " You're human John."

John looked back down at his normal, blood free, everyday hands. " It's good to be reminded sometimes."

" Just don't ever forget - whatever happens, whatever skin your in. You're still John, and we wouldn't have it any other way."

John smiled too. " Neither would I."

The End


End file.
